


Heliacal Rising

by broomclosetkink



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, F/M, Humor, Romance, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/pseuds/broomclosetkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship, romance, teenage angst and hormones against the backdrop of the First Wizarding War. Voldemort’s rise to power does not simply shake the foundations of their lives, it rips them apart and leaves only faded memories and dreams of the hopeful youths they had once been. Begins in Sirius’ third year, continues to through to the fall of Voldemort. Sirius/OFC, James/Lily, AU - canon divergence</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sirius as a semi-awkward teenage boy? No leather? No hordes of Hogwarts students as his subjugated sex slaves? What is this atrocity that I'm writing!? A realistic Sirius love story, or at least trying to. I am probably going to fail horribly. Fail or not, I am going to have a blast writing this. The mature rating has not, and will not, be earned for several chapters. 
> 
> A giant, overwhelming flood of thanks to Project Team Beta. This chapter would still be sitting a corner picking its nose if it weren't for the amazing beta job it received.

**1973**

 

It’s not so much that either of them _lose_ their virginity, like it’s something they misplace and spend time searching for afterward; it’s rather more of a cheerful _bon voyage, mon vieil ami!_ with kisses pressed to palms and then tossed carelessly outward, caught by strangers or falling into the sea. They’re both fourteen; she with half grown hips and nervous fingers, he with a cracking voice and the faintest sprinkling of fresh new hairs on his chest.

 

He finishes almost directly after she thinks _oh well, this is rather pleasant now, isn’t it?_ So there is a double ache between her legs, pain and something that is not-pain but feels very much like it, so for days she will be crossing-uncrossing-crossing-uncrossing her legs and shifting awkwardly in her seat during classes. He rolls to the other side of the bed, but it’s small, so they’re touching right down the middle; shoulders and elbows and ribs, hips and thighs and her leg over his.

 

“You’re bleeding,” he points out, looking quite leery of it. She shrugs - _oh well_ \- and smiles.

 

“I’m fine.” She assures him, before she’s sitting up and then leaning over, her curls like spun gold in the afternoon sunlight. They tease the side of her breast, her stomach, her hip as she kisses the corner of his mouth; it’s not sexual or romantic, this kiss. It’s friendly...trusting. He likes it – trust, that is. It’s an intoxicating thing to have. “Thank you, Sirius. I’m glad it was you.”

 

“Yeah?” He grins, hair sticking to the sweating line of his long neck. “Good, then. You’ll let me know how it turns out with the other bloke?”

 

“As long as you promise to be _nice_.”

 

“When am I ever _not_ nice, Riley?”

 

She snorts, he laughs, and they’re both relieved, because in the back of their minds there was a fear that the second they were naked in bed together, giving and taking each other's virginity like gifts (it was only convenience, really, that’s all), that everything would be different. Like maybe they wouldn’t be allowed to be friends anymore, because friends don’t shag.

 

Except maybe they’re the kind of friends that can. And that’s alright.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

When Sirius Black finds Wynne Riley hiding in the little room behind Penelope Devereox’s portrait on the seventh floor, mascara ringing her wet eyes and her nose red and raw from use of the tissues littering the floor near the rubbish bin (a Chaser in the rough she obviously is not), Sirius knows something is wrong. Not just because of the tears, but because she _isn’t_ put together; most the third year girls fall into hysterics when they think something has smudged.

 

“Are you trying to flood the place?” asks Sirius in a mixture of concern and discomfort, dropping his bag in the floor and hovering at the end of the sofa. What is he supposed to do? He wonders, and then tries to surmise Remus’s actions in Sirius’s position...probably offer her chocolate and a shoulder to cry on.

 

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Sirius pulls out a half eaten bar of Honeydukes' Best and a few Bertie Botts; he plucks the lint off before thrusting it all towards Wynne, a bit of an peace offering.

 

“S-s-shut up,” she stutters, gulping back tears in an effort to appear fine, just fine. Sirius is rather proud to note, though, that she accepts the Honeydukes with something like gratefulness in her eyes. “Why a-aren’t you in c-c-class?”

 

“B-b-because it’s b-b-boring. Bloody _Binns_.”

 

Taking a bite of chocolate, Wynne nods in agreement, even smiling a bit at his friendly mocking as Sirius falls on to the sofa with her. He is reminded of several months ago, when they were pressed together down the middle; except now it is just their thighs, their shoulders, with far too much blank space and clothing in the middle to truly mimic that winter afternoon.

 

“Alright,” he sighs, “What’s happened, then?”

 

“It w-wasn’t Donovan Slaughter,” Wynne admits, plucking a new tissue from the package in her lap. It takes Sirius a minute to realize what she’s talking about, but it clicks, and he realizes she’s talking about the shagging. The reason she asked him – she’d said, then, _I really like Donovan - oh, you know, the Ravenclaw keeper? But he’s so much older than me, I don’t want him to know I’m still a virgin...so I thought you could help me with that. All right?_

 

“Shove off,” Sirius elbows her with only moderate force, curiosity lighting his gaze. “You’re always with Slaughter. Thought you two were going to break up, or at least have a duel after the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match in February, though.”

 

“Like I was going to root for _Ravenclaw_ ,” Wynne snorts, giving Sirius an outraged look. He’s pleased to note she has stopped crying. “It’s not like he was cheering when you lot scored.”

 

“Might have made for an interesting match, though. _Anyway_ ,” Sirius draws the word out pointedly, “It wasn’t about Slaughter, then?”

 

“No, don’t be mad – I thought everyone knew, really...Donovan is seeing Finn Talbot – he’s a Hufflepuff sixth year. We’re just good friends, Donovan and I. And Finn as well.”

 

“ _Oh_. My Uncle Alphard has a...gentleman friend of that nature – I understand. So all right, obviously you haven’t been sneaking off and shagging Slaughter in the middle of the night – who is it, then?” A sudden, terrible thought occurs to Sirius, and he gives Wynne a sideways glance that is caught between fear and outrage. “It’s not a _Slytherin_ , is it?”

 

“Really, Sirius, you can’t possibly think a Slytherin would be willing to shag a mud-blood like me.” Tone dry, Wynne eyes Sirius as he grimaces at the slur; it always reminds him of his mother, straight backed and haughty and hateful.

 

“ _Riley_ ,” he snaps, a short warning. She shrugs.

 

“What? Its true. Certainly not a Slytherin – no, I’ve...I’ve been seeing Professor Molyneux.”

 

Sirius is so startled he actually manages to choke on his own saliva, even flailing and jerking in sharp movements. It seems shock has caused him to lose control of his body.

 

“ _What_?” Voice cracking mightily, Sirius gives Wynne a wide eyed stare. “Are you – a _professor_?”

 

“I – I love him. He said he – he loved me, too, and t-that – after I left Hogwarts, he was going to take me to F-France, and w-w-we were going to live in the village w-where he grew up, a-and –” Breaking into tears one more, Wynne hides her face behind her hands, curling in on herself like a crumpled piece of parchment.

 

“Oh – hey, Riley, don’t – it’s okay –” Sirius isn’t sure exactly _how_ to go about comforting a girl who is obviously devastated over a bloke, but he figures tossing a dungbomb in her face to make her laugh probably won’t work. (It generally cheers James up, though.) Instead he gingerly puts an arm around her, a bit surprised when she turns into his grasp.

 

She ends up with her face hidden against his shoulder, crying so hard he’s going to have a great wet-spot on his jumper. She’s got her arms around his waist, clinging to him like he’s the last solid thing she’s got in the world. Sirius just lets her hold on and cry, because really, what else can he do?

 

“We’re third years. That’s...that’s pretty creepy.” He feels the need to point out when Wynne’s tears begin to slow. Sirius is all for daring acts and finding out the password to the Slytherin common room by dragging Regulus around in a headlock (and then giving said password to Peeves), but he is rather profoundly uncomfortable at the thought of a professor sleeping with his classmate.

 

Not just because it’s Riley, who he’s had a soft spot for since the time she hid him and James in a broom cupboard their first year (and proceeded to convince _McGonagall_ that she hadn’t seen either of them down that particular corridor). Not even because in January they fumbled their way into his bed, though he found afterward he had developed a bit of a proprietary air when it came to her. (Well really, if he doesn't have the right to steal her Charms notes and ignore her threats of violence, who does?)

 

No, it is because the whole thing isn’t very... _loyal_ , is it? Professors take a vow to advance knowledge and protect their students; not to use an accent and position to lure girls in.

 

“I k-know!” She wails. “T-that’s not even the w-worst, though! I – we were – we shagged, alright? We s-shagged _lots_ , that’s who I was s-sneaking out to meet at night – a-and t-this morning after Defense I sneaked b-back to the classroom to see him, a-and – he was in his o-o-office with stupid Millie Hollingberry! That s-stupid Hufflepuff with tits t-that are j-just –”

 

Wynne throws herself backwards, creating enough distance between their bodies that she can hold her hands out in front of her own chest.

 

“Engorgement charm!” She deplores loudly. “S-she has to be using a s-stupid Engorgement charm!”

 

Sirius takes a hold on the hand that is still gripping the chocolate bar, bringing it firmly to Wynne’s mouth. She gulps back tears before taking a large bite, earning herself a comforting pat on the back.

 

“He’s a wanker,” Sirius announces, with no small amount of malice. “Don’t cry over him anymore, okay? An idiot like that isn’t worth it, Riley.”

 

“I’m just...I f-feel so _stupid_!”

 

“You’re not _stupid_. He’s just a creep.”

 

It takes a while, but Wynne does manage to cry herself out. Mind, her eyes and nose are raw, and when she first stands, she shuffles and then staggers like a drunk.

 

“Thank you,” Wynne about half-whispers before they leave the little room. The hug she gives Sirius is tight and warm. “Don’t let it get around and ruin your reputation, but you’re a really sweet boy.”

 

“Yeah, well...” Sirius shrugs uncomfortably, ruffling her hair.

 

Later, he sits behind her in Transfiguration, kicking the underside of her chair when McGonagall’s back is turned. When the class ends, Wynne threatens to break his foot he ever repeats that particular performance, but her smile is genuine – though small – making Sirius feel as though he has accomplished something rather good.

 

(And when the day ends, and he and his friends are safely ensconced in their dorm room, where there are no ears to overhear, Sirius explains why Molyneux’s life at Hogwarts is about to become incredibly difficult.)

 

\----X----

 

Three weeks before the summer holiday, Bernard Molyneux storms into the Great Hall. A trunk and rather large case bob along behind him, clunking into each other at odd intervals.

 

He is covered in large, yellow boils and leaves behind him a strongly smelling trail of a thick, viscous liquid.

 

“I’ve had it!” He shouts, accent far less pronounced than it is when he is attempting to charm his students. “These students are left loose like mad dogs – at Beauxbatons, little monsters of this nature would have been expelled – non, they _never would have been_ _ **admitted**_!”

 

“Bernard?” Dumbledore questions, appering rather stunned. His beard is flung over his right shoulder, and a fork is lifted halfway to his mouth. “I take it – er – there has been a...problem?”

 

“Problem? _Problem_?” So enraged he cannot speak, Molyneux settles for flailing in a violent expression of rage.

 

“Is that Bubotuber pus?” questions Professor Sprout, who doesn’t look nearly as upset as she probably should after discovering a large percentage of her stores covering a fellow professor. (After the fifth year Ravenclaw and Slytherins witnessed a rather frightful row behind Greenhouse Six between the two professors, it became commonly theorized that the two had – at least briefly – been lovers. Sirius rather thinks it has more to do with the fact that Molyneux was caught leaving Mollie Hollingberry, or so Sirius overheard while lurking outside the staff room.)

 

Molyneux begins to rage in French. Remus and Sirius both gape a long moment, before Remus slants a glance towards Sirius and asks, “Did he just say – 'with a _goat_?' _Really_?”

 

“Forget the goat, did you catch the bit about teaching idiots like us being as painful as rupturing one's bollocks?”

 

James appears oddly flattered.

 

“It’s so nice to have our effort recognized,” he sighs, putting a hand to his chest. “I’m just – so over _come_ with emotion!”

 

“I _quit_!” shrieks Molyneux with a violent flail of his arms, sending undiluted Bubotuber pus flying. A little Ravenclaw first year shrieks as some splashes, thick and immediately painful, across the side of her face. “Find someone else to attempt and train these monstrous little dunderheads – I won’t stay a moment longer!”

 

A massive blister on his neck breaks open, and begins to ooze foul smelling pus down his robes. The Hall is abnormally silent as their Defense Against the Dark Art teacher marches away, cursing loudly (and crudely) in a blazing mixture of French and English.

 

Once his ranting has faded, all heads swing to the high table. Professor Sprout appears oddly satisfied, nodding quite smugly at Professor McGonagall. She, in turn, seems to be profoundly unimpressed by her former colleague’s dramatic departure.

 

The staff whispers amongst themselves for a short moment, before the Headmaster takes to his feet.

 

“It seems since Professor Molyneux has – ah – decided to leave us early, I will be filling in as professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts. I’m quite sure we will somehow muddle on, however. That being said, carry on – and Miss Jenner, please take Miss Lively to the Hospital Wing. Thank you.” He takes his seat once more, and applies himself to the remainder of his lunch.

 

“Good job, lads.” Remus lifts his pumpkin juice, much less concerned than usual about keeping a low profile after a successful prank has been pulled. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

 

“Here, here!” Peter clinks his goblet against Remus’s, grinning.

 

“ _Excellent_ table manners, boys,” Professor Sprout takes care to remark while passing the Gryffindor table on her way out. (James has gravy on his chin, and Peter is bemoaning freshly spilled pumpkin juice staining his robes.) “Twenty points a piece to Gryffindor.”

 

After lunch, while Sirius is simultaneously making his way towards Charms and finishing his Charms essay, Wynne slides up beside him.

 

“How _did_ you boys manage to break into Professor Sprout’s store room and get her Bubotuber pus?”

 

“I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about, Riley,” Sirius assures her quickly, kicking Peter in the ankle to keep him quiet. Rolling her eyes, Wynne threads her arm through Sirius’s, pulling him to a halt. Peter pauses as well, still holding Sirius’s ink well aloft, looking rather confused on if he should remain or go ahead. Remus settles the matter by sighing rather heavily through his nose, taking Peter by the back of the robes and pulling him along.

 

“I know you told them,” Wynne jerks her head towards James, who is waggling his eyebrows as he continues by. “About...what happened.”

 

“Yeah, well,” feeling vaguely uncomfortable, Sirius shrugs, not quite able to meet her gaze. “They won’t tell anyone else. And they aren’t going to... _judge_ you, or anything.”

 

“Seeing as Peter told me it didn’t make me a slag –”

 

Sirius winces and mutters,“Pete, you idiot!”

 

“Oh, don’t be cross with him – he was being nice. I know they won’t go around telling everyone. I just wanted to thank you. I know no one else would believe it, but you really _are_ sweet.” Standing up on her toes to achieve it (Sirius has had a recent growth spurt) Wynne brushes a kiss to the corner of his mouth, a mirror of another several months before.

 

Brushing his long fringe out of his eyes with a grin, Sirius follows her to Flitwick’s classroom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The betas over at PTB are an amazing group of women, especially the poor souls that have my chapters show up in their inbox. All errors contained herein are my own, as those ladies know their stuff inside and out.

As it turns out, the Primordialis Ipse Drought is a crucial step in the process of becoming an animagus. There is no way to avoid or go around it; it must be brewed and, according to _Tail Feathers, Paws, Fins, and Fur: the Path to an Animagus_ , drank thrice over a three month period to open the path between human consciousness and animal instincts. (On a somewhat unrelated note, Sirius finds he rather fancies the word _thrice_ , and is now quite intent on using it more often).

 

There are two very specific problems with the need for the Primordialis Ipse Drought. First, the whole lot of them are bollocks at potions. Remus melts cauldrons on an astonishingly regular basis, and Peter has yet to go an entire month without creating a flesh eating acid from the basis of a seemingly harmless brew; James and Sirius, on the other hand, do not have the patience required for potion mastery. Their inattention to detail tends to result in spectacular explosions, not all of them prompted by the question, “Oi, James, what say you to adding a handful of salamander scales and seeing what happens?”

 

(There is just so much _sitting_ , Sirius mourns, how can one devilishly handsome young man such as himself be expected to spend hours stirring, chopping bat wings, and waiting for liquid to boil? He is – _thankfully –_ not Snivellus, who is content to spend his life dipping his massive nose into smelly potions.)

 

Second, asking someone to brew the potion for them would alert an untrusted outsider as to what they are doing. _Well_ , actually they would have a fifty-fifty chance of discovering that three classmates are attempting to become illegal animagito keep their friend the werewolf company – though really, unless they happen to be Seers, the bit about Remus being a werewolf wouldn’t be in there. Just the part about becoming illegal animagi, which is really bad enough on its own.

 

The _other_ conclusion would be that Peter, James, and Sirius were using the Drought for its secondary usage: to create a familiar from an otherwise ordinary animal. (From what Sirius understands of the process, it involves taking a bit of one’s own consciousness and sticking it in the chosen creature – Primordialis Ipse being used to prepare that bit of themselves for the transfer.) Which is, as it were, also illegal without Ministry issued permits.

 

“Aw,” Sirius sighs, fingers furrowing deeply into his long hair as he slouches over the book. “I didn’t get to use thrice.”

 

“Isn’t that a nice word?” asksJames, tugging _Tail Feathers, Paws, Fins, and Fur_ from between Sirius’s elbows. “We should use it more.”

 

“It’s catchy, isn’t it? Thrice. Thricely. Thrice the mice ate lice while rolling dice.” Digging his blunt nails into his scalp, Sirius scowlsat the table. There must be _some_ way around the potion...

 

“Shakespeare is dying all over again because he didn’t think of that one himself.” James begins to scribble notes on a wrinkled bit of parchment. “What if we...no, that really wouldn’t work either...but maybe...”

 

“Shakespeare often weeps in his cold grave over not being as frightfully clever as I. But then again, most creatures – living or otherwise – suffer the same disappointing reality.”

 

“On that note, I think I’m going to be sick,” murmurs Remus from behind his fort of tomes. Sirius canonly see his eyes and badly ruffled hair; it makes him look a bit like James.

 

“Why don’t we have someone brew the potion for us?” Peter holds out a Pumpkin Pasty to Sirius as he speaks, which Sirius ignores. He is not blind to the fact that Peter seems ready to set fire to the library in an effort to escape it's walls, however.

 

“ _Because,_ Peter,” James hisses with a glare that could melt metal. “That person would be able to very easily figure out what we’re doing.”

 

“But what if it was someone we trust?”

 

“Pete, there is no one in this school, that is _not_ sitting at this table, that I trust enough to hand that kind of information to!”

 

Sirius is opening his mouth to agree with James when, like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky, he realizes it is not true. There are two others he trusts – Regulus, despite the fact he probably shouldn’t, and Wynne Riley.

 

Riley is actually quite adept in potions, as Sirius knows well from years of copying her essays. Besides, _they_ drove Molyneux out of the school last year in defense of her honor (sort of like knights errant, though with less armor and more dungbombs) – not to mention that they had ran the risk of expulsion by torturing a professor the way they had (though Sirius seriously doubted McGonagall would have even suggested it; she might not have been able to prove Molyneux was shagging his students, but she certainly disliked him).

 

“Riley. We could ask Riley to do it.”

 

“Wynne?’ Remus’s head pops entirely over his stacks of books, eyebrows crowding his hairline. “She’s a nice girl, Sirius, but I don’t know if she would attempt to brew a potion NEWT level potion for us.”

 

“And would she keep it a secret?” James adds quickly, skepticism written plainly across his features. “I know you’re friendly with her, but -”

 

“Friendly!” Snorts Peter so violently he sprays bits of half-chewed Pumpkin Pasty across the table. “Friendly is a handshake; Sirius _shagged_ her.”

 

“That has nothing to do with it.” Irritation stabbing meanly through him, Sirius gives Peter a sharp look. “Riley is a good sort, and she’s covered for us before.”

 

“This isn’t hiding us in a broom cupboard or sneaking stink pellets back from Hogsmeade because Filch checks us for them. This is _serious_ _._ ” Shaking his head, James gestures emphatically. “We can’t risk it – besides, what if we ask her, and she squeals on us?”

 

“If she doesn’t agree to do it, or it seems like she might betray us, I can oblivate her.” Sirius's tone is grim, and he develops a sour taste in his mouth at the thought of it. But there are certain risks one must take, and he isn’t about to leave Moony alone in that shack anymore; besides, he does not quite know what it means to _lose_.

 

“That is really advanced magic, Sirius.” Looking faintly horrified, Remus turns white under his scars. “And you might end up hurting her – _really_ hurting her –”

 

“Father taught me Oblivate the summer after my second year.” Feeling rather stiff at the memory, Sirius begins to neatly line up the books in front of him to keep his hands busy. He keeps his gaze locked on Remus’s, though, daring the other boy to condemn him. “I practiced on the house elves.”

 

“Why would your father teach you – _ouch_!” Remus and James both kickPeter in the shins under the table; Peter, for his part, flings himself forward with such strength he nearly bashes his head on the table on the way down to grip the aching spots.

 

Out of Sirius’s three friends, its Pete who understands Sirius’s upbringing the least. He’s just so... _naive_.

 

“It doesn’t feel right, planning to oblivate a classmate. Wynne is our _friend_.” A part of Sirius agrees very strongly with Remus – it _isn’t_ right to think about erasing the memories of someone he knows trusts him. But...

 

“There’s no way we can brew this potion and not poison ourselves,” James throws in his two knuts with a dark sort of determination. “Riley is clever with potions, and Sirius trusts her. If this is only way we can help Moony...”

 

Remus appears both distinctly uncomfortable and utterly overwhelmed at further proof of how far his friends are willing to go for him. _Prat_ , Sirius thinks fondly, _he’d do it for us._

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Nearly an hour later, Sirius finds Wynne behind Greenhouse Three, sitting sideways in Donovan Slaughter’s lap. Beside them is Finn Talbot, who is in the process of passing a cigarette to Donovan while Wynne nearly falls out of his lap to escape the smoke. Her nose is tightly crinkled, and she appears none too pleased.

 

“Just try it!” Donovan is laughingly urging, trying to press the fag to her lips.

 

“I am a _vocalist_ , Van -- the day I start inhaling smoke and burning my throat is also the day I stop plucking my eyebrows!”

 

“And you mustn’t ever quit, as otherwise it looks like a furry caterpillar has crawled across your forehead and – oh, _hello_ there, young Mister Black.” A bright smile flutters across Talbot’s face as he catches sight of Sirius, and a stray bit of sunlight that escapes the dark clouds glints strikingly in both his and Wynne’s fair curls. He reaches out, pinching Wynne’s bare knee with a wink.

 

“Drag, Black?” asks Slaughter, holding the fag out. Sirius takes it easily, his other hand occupied with ruffling Wynne’s hair in greeting. She squawks in a fowl like fashion, slapping his fingers away before attempting to blindly set it to rights.

 

“Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how long it takes me to fix this mess in the mornings? Stop _doing_ that!” Slaughter places one broad hand on the top of Wynne’s head, and proceeds to muss her hair so badly that the curls lose shape, and Wynne begins to look remarkably like a very blonde sheep.

 

“Damn it, Van!” she shrieks, rocketing out of his lap with such force she nearly trips over Talbot’s legs. She clamps her hands over the top of her head, turning to scowl at Sirius from between her arms. “The hell do you want, Sirius?”

 

“I was wondering if you could spare a moment of your precious time for a bit of chat.” He takes another drag before passing the cigarette back to Slaughter, who gives Sirius a cheeky sort of wink in reply. Wynne appears rather confused (friendly they may be, but they rarely seek each other out outside of the common room, and not once before now in this first week of their fourth year) nodding slowly.

 

“Yes, of course. Um – I’ll just catch you boys later, then.” They wave cheerfully, and while Wynne’s back is to them, Sirius doesn’t miss the wink Talbot throws his way – they seem to be under the impression that he is stealing Wynne for, at the very least, a snog. It would be positively uncharitable to dash their hopes and dreams, wouldn’t it?

 

“Come, my love butterfly!” He says with loud enthusiasm, popping one hand against her bum. Wynne squeals and bounces several steps ahead, her hands curling over bottom.

 

“Sirius! What the hell?” Obviously startled, her eyes are so large Sirius fears they may burst free of her skull.

 

“Let us retire to our love nest and spend hours _worshiping_ each other's bodies!” She struggles as he loops an arm around her waist, nearly tripping them both.

 

“You _have_ been reading my romance novels –I _knew_ you were the one that took _The Viking’s Thrall_ from my bag!”

 

“Don’t you want to be overwhelmed at the mere sight of my throbbing sword of passion?” Purpling, Wynne appears briefly in danger of choking on her tongue. Sirius thinks he may crack a rib from containing his laughter. “Or be consumed by your desire, which is both as hot a flame and as moist as the morning dew on a rosebud?”

 

“Now you’re just mocking me.” Wynne scowls, trying to stomp on his toes with every other step.

 

“I would never mock you! I yearn only to lay you out on my bed of furs, where – ”

 

“Did you _memorize_ it? Because that says more about you than it does me.”

 

“ _Where_ ,” Sirius continues strongly, attempting to ignore Wynne’s entirely valid point and the throbbing of three of his toes after being ground under her heel. “I would lovingly torture you with my kisses and roughly gentle hands.”

 

“Obviously you’re remembering what happened between us _much_ differently than I do. As I recall, there was more of this –” jerking and twitching so violently she nearly takes Sirius off balance, Wynne pulls a truly disturbing series of facial expressions. “And then you nearly got sick when you saw I was bleeding just the tiniest bit.”

 

“I did not ‘nearly get sick!’” Sirius protests loudly, digginghis fingers into Wynne’s ribs, startled to feel a faint flush crawling up his cheeks. “I was _concerned_ that my obviously well endowed self had done you serious harm. _Obviously_.”

 

A second year Hufflepuff boy pauses on his way to the greenhouses, head slowly turning to eye them as they pass. Sirius winks, jerking a thumb towards Wynne as he says in a rather loud undertone, “She was frightened at first. This big, really.” The Hufflepuff takes off at a run after Sirius spreads his hands well over a foot apart, leering broadly.

 

Wynne – free at last – smacks him so forcefully on the back of his head that Sirius fears he has forgotten parts of his childhood (before promptly recalling there isn’t much about it he’d actually like to retain).

 

“Ow! What was that for?”

 

“Telling lies to children,” she sniffs primly. “I don’t think it’s possible for one to become that large. Outside of a centaur, of course.”

 

“We’ve only been back at Hogwarts a week, don’t tell me you’ve already manage to shag a centaur. That’s just _filthy_.” Finally succumbing to a flaming blush, Wynne settles a wide eyed look of horror on Sirius.

 

“There was a line,” she informs him gravely, “And you just pissed all over its mother’s grave.” Honestly, Sirius feels rather proud.

 

“So, did you steal me away from Finn and Van just to talk dirty?” As quickly as her snit over his teasing came, it passes, and she’s gotone arm looped through his as they reenter the castle. She sort of leans against him; not being held up, not being guided, just there. Comfortable. As though she’s saying _well, since we’re going this way together, why not have a bit of a cuddle?_

 

Sirius hasn’t ever pegged himself for the type to enjoy cuddling (it seems rather... _girly_ , doesn’t it?)but its kind of nice.

 

“Actually, we have a bit of a problem that we need your assistance with.”

 

“We?” Wynne quotes back, looking suddenly wary. “The last time you said something that sounded like that, I spent the last week of my second year doing nightly detentions with Slughorn just for being in your company when the dungeons were flooded. I didn’t even know what you boys had done!”

 

“There was no proof that we had anything to do with that, thank you very much. But didn’t we have fun disemboweling rats?”

 

Wynne gags at the mere memory, pressing suddenly sweating fingers to her mouth.

 

“No. No, we did not have _fun_. _You_ stuck a rat corpse down my shirt, and James got entrails in my hair, and then I _almost died_.”

 

Giggling at the memory, Sirius recalls the way her face had gone bloodlessly white before she began swaying dangerously, as though close to fainting after James had draped said entrails across her head. Remus had stepped in and saved the day, of course, and in the end Slughorn had released Wynne early, citing that spending time with the four boys was more than enough punishment for one young woman.

 

“That dance you did when I put the rat down your blouse – ” dancing quite awkwardly on his toes while flailing one arm, Sirius somehow managed to not slow their pace down. “It was _brilliant_. Too bad Pete didn’t have his camera...”

 

“If you had gotten that on film I would have killed you all in your sleep. Saint Cyprian.” The portrait of the Fat Lady gives them a smile, blinking rather coyly.

 

“Well, don’t the two of _you_ look cozy.” She remarks as she opens, leaving Wynne to roll her eyes as they clamber inside. Sirius pulls her towards the staircase leading to the boy’s dormitory before she can pass it, earning a rather sharp look before Wynne follows with a shrug. James, Remus, and Peter are waiting in the fourth year boys dorm room, looking rather nervous, though Wynne gives them a cheerful wave as she enters.

 

“Hello, lads – oh my _God_ , what is that smell?” As Wynne staggers backwards, Sirius is quick to dart behind her and throw the door shut, bolting it for good measure. She regardsthe discarded Quidditch equipment in the floor with obvious horror; the smell seems to be a combination of Sirius and James’s Quidditch boots and sweaty robes.

 

“You get used to it,” Peter assures her with a knowing nod. Feeling rather sick – hoping he was right and she is willing to do this, that it won’t come to erasing her memories – Sirius pulls his wand out and begins to nervously twirl it between his fingers. Remus stands, gesturing Wynne towards his bed. It is neatly made, despite the fact the house elves have not been in to clean (James’s looks as though pixies have been nesting in it), and Wynne hurries towards Remus’s area of the room. Even his books are neatly organized on top of his nightstand.

 

Perching on the edge of Remus’s bed, Wynne looks rather uncomfortable.

 

“Well,” she asks after a long moment of silence, “Is this the bit where you explain ritual sacrifice to me?” James gives a loud snort while Remus sort of wheezes.Peter, true to form, plows right in with all his usual grace and asks,

 

“Hasn’t got nothing to do with ritual sacrifice, does it? We’re not heathens, running around the country side painted blue and flashing our bits at everyone. We just wanted to know if you’d brew the Primordialis Ipse Drought for us.”

 

“Oh, for fucks sake, Pete -” James nearly howls, toppling backwards across his bed.

 

“Tact, Peter, _tact_!” Remus groans. Pulling a chocolate bar from his nightstand drawer, Remus breaks off a piece and shoves it into Wynne’s hands before taking a large bite of his own. She doesn’t seem to notice, being far too caught up in gaping at Peter as though he has lost his mind.

 

Sirius just feels rather ill. Here it is, the moment where Wynne hurls her bit of Honeydukes' Best at Sirius’ face before attempting to flee the room. And while her back is turned, or maybe when Remus tries to grab her and convince her that really, it isn’t as terrible as it sounds, he is going to have take away a bit of her mind - and even though she’ll never know it, he’ll be losing her trust.

 

He’ll be doing exactly what his father wanted when he taught him to perform the charm ( _Sometime_ _s_ _we Blacks do things in the...heat of the moment, as it were_ , Orion had told his son, frowning rather fiercely at the then thirteen year old, _and we must protect not only ourselves, but the reputation of the family as a whole. This may be unpleasant in some situations, but it may also be an incredibly important tool, Sirius_ ). Two months Sirius spent wiping Kreatcher's mind – it was no wonder the elf had gone even further around bend.

 

“First of all, boys, in case you have not done extensive research on this potion –”

 

“Oh, we have,” Peter assures her blithely. He pauses a moment, eyes narrowing as he lifts one shoulder. “Well, they did. The library is very _dusty_ , see, and I've got allergies...”

 

“Ah yes,” Wynne bites out squeakily, “ _Allergies_. Well, just to inform _you_ at least then – and perhaps you three other morons as obviously you haven't done as much research as I would have hoped –”

 

“How do you even know anything about it?” demandsJames, as though that really matters at _all_.

 

Sirius debates, chucking a discarded boot at his head – honestly, who _cares_ how Wynne knows, they should just be thankful he hasn't had to wipe her memory (yet).

 

“Merriweather's eldest brother is attempting to become an animagus – he began the process last year, and she and I researched it. It's incredibly difficult magic, you know, and I'm frankly shocked that Basil hasn't sprouted feathers and begun attempting to perch on chairs, because he hasn't got the common sense God gave a goose, and I'm _certain_ he's going to bung it up, somehow – ” Sucking in a terrifically deep breath, Wynne knots her fingers together in her lap and seems to concentrate on breathing for a moment. She closes her eyes and sort of hums, toes tapping a moderate rhythm before she shoots James a mean glare. “And how _I_ know isn't important, is it? You four are the ones that are either planning on sticking a bit of your brains in a...a _pig_ , or something...or you're going to – ”

 

“Now honestly,” Sirius can't help but cut in, tossing one hand into the air. “A _pig_? Of all the animals we could choose, you think any of us would choose a _pig_?”

 

“Dragon,” Peter says with a firm nod. “I've given it considerable thought, and if I were ever to create a familiar, it would definitely be a dragon. A Chinese Fireball, because they are wicked looking. And I had a stuffed one when I was a small. His name was Smokey.”

 

There is a considerable moment of silence as four pairs of eyes lock on Peter. It takes him a moment to pull out of his fantasies, but when he does, he seems startled at all the attention.

 

“Erm – what?” Peter questions, flustered.

 

“Actually,” Wynne muses in an almost reluctant fashion, “That would be rather spectacular. But wherever would you get a Chinese Fireball?”

 

“ _Well_ ,” looking as though he has been handed an early Christmas present, Peter practically begins to vibrate with excitement. “Merlin's Big Top Circus has a Fireball – Marlon – and I thought that _first_ –”

 

“I really don't think the whys and wherefores of how to obtain a dragon is important right now,” Remus cuts Peter off in a strained manner – he looks as shaken and surly as Sirius feels. “And we are neither confirming nor denying if our plans involve a dragon. Just so we're clear.”

 

“Oh yeah? Fine. Don't tell me what you're planning to do, I don't _want_ to know. I won't have to testify at your trial when you're drug before the Wizengamot.” Scowling fiercely, Wynne licks melted chocolate from her fingers before popping the piece into her mouth, chewing with a sort of violence rarely seen. She doesn't meet their eyes; instead she directs her anger at the toes of her shoes. “Do you have any idea how intense the Primordialis Ipse Drought is? One of the key ingredients is diluted basilisk venom, do you know that? One part per million; one _tiny_ bit of basilisk venom, and the rest is water; but it is so powerful that if you were to drink it, it would kill you. So if I mess up – if, say, I were to add too much diluted venom or too little of the diluted phoenix tears after the initial brewing period, then you're dead. Like that.” She snaps her fingers, her lips going nearly white.

 

“And anyway,” she continues, “I would need a note from Professor Slughorn to order several of the ingredients, and let's be honest, unless I was willing to ask him while naked –”

 

“That would work...” James points out, nodding thoughtfully.

 

“My sister Martha works at _Slug & Jiggers_. She'll let me buy whatever I want, so long as I don't tell mum and dad that her boyfriend spent most the summer at her flat with her.” Peter appears impossibly smug.

 

“It takes four months to brew, and needs too much supervision to just toss it in a cupboard and wait until the time is up. Where would I keep it? It's not as though I can put it in my dorm – there's six of us crammed in there. I can't put my mascara on without poking someone else in the eye.” Growing more and more agitated, Wynne folds her arms under her breasts, rigidly displeased.

 

“You can keep it here. We can keep an eye on it –” Wynne gives a great snort of at James' words, to which he holds up a hand. “And if something needs done or looks off, we can have you come up to 'borrow a book' from Remus or something.”

 

“Jesus Christ.” Lips pressed tightly together, Wynne gives each of them a vicious glare in turn. “I don't want you idiots trying to brew it yourselves and dying because Tweedledum and Tweedledee –” she jerks a thumb towards Sirius and James with a glower – “over there thought it would be a good idea to toss Filibusters in and see what happens. But neither Peter nor Remus are allowed to touch it –”

 

“I honestly wouldn't dream of it.” Remus assures her quickly.

 

“Cross my wand, hope to – er – not die.” Peter adds, smiling as innocently as he can manage.

 

“I promise I will not bring Filibusters or any other kind of explosives near it. And neither will Sirius. Right?”

 

“Right.” Sirius agrees easily with James, rather blindsided – it sounds as though she's planning on –

 

“So long as you can convince Peter's sister to sell you idiots what I need, then I'll make it. _Unwillingly_.” She tacks on stiffly. “Because I know you'll do it with or without me. But I expect one of you to help me with my Arithmancy anytime I need it, and...and I don't know what else, I'll have to get back to you on it. But it _will_ be something extravagant and outlandish and possibly even deadly, and you can't tell me no. So... _there_.”

 

“What did I tell you?” Sirius asks James, gifting his friend with a glance blow with a loose fist off James's bony shoulder. He is so relieved his insides feel like liquid, sloshing drunkenly around under his skin.

 

James shakes his head, a reluctant smile pulling at his narrow mouth.

 

“One time you're right, and we're never going to hear the end of it, are we?”

 

“One time?” Lunging forward, Sirius captures James in a headlock. “I've been right plenty more times than that, thank you – _I_ am always right!”

 

“Oh, ah, well then.” Scooting across Remus' bed, Wynne begins to drift towards the door. “I'll just be on my way, now.”

 

James somehow manages to get Sirius's feet out from under him, and they toppleto the floor in a tangle of gangly limbs. One arm still locked around James's neck, Sirius stretches a hand out in an attempt to trip Wynne as well. She darts away, however, her eyes wide.

 

“Stay!” Sirius urges, planting a foot in James' stomach. His friend gives a great, breathy groan of pain before managing to escape Sirius's headlock, latching onto Sirius's arm and twisting it up behind him. “You can wrestle the winner!”

 

“If either of you break an arm or something, _I'm_ not taking you to the Hospital Wing.” Remus informs them with a lofty sort of disregard for their health (probably spawned from competing in so very many of their wrestling matches at this point).

 

“I will,” Peter assures them faithfully.

 

Moments after Wynne flees, Peter hurls himself onto both Sirius and James, planting his feet in James's back (James, for his part, shrieks quite shrilly). He bellows, “I'm king of this dog pile!” while at the very bottom Sirius wheezes brokenly and feels certain he has a cracked rib or five.

 

“Is that so?” Their mild mannered werewolf questions before tackling Peter.

 

A little over an hour later, they are treated to another lecture from Madam Pomfrey on the dangers of tomfoolery and horseplay. While her back is turned, Remus smugly mouths, “ _I win_.”

 

Sirius consoleshimself with the fact that the black eye Madam Pomfrey refuses to heal (hoping it will teach him a lesson, or some other rubbish) makes him look incredibly roguish.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the betas that serviced this chapter at PTB. (Wow, that sounds kinda dirty, doesn't it?) They know their stuff inside and out!

“Happy birthday, Riley!” Sirius shouts, easily jumping an ottoman to land in front of Wynne's footstool. He is beaming in a maniacal, worrying fashion.

 

Lowering her novel (the cover features a warlock in robes that strain against his muscled chest, while a witch clings to his biceps, tossing her long hair and pouting lustily), Wynne gives Sirius a long look. Her eyes drop to the package in his hands; it is wrapped in the Evening Prophet and is bound with at _least_ half a roll of spello-tape.

 

Sirius's grin does not even come close to dimming.Truth be told, he feels as cheerful as a girl on her first date, and for no real reason other than sheer cheerfulness.

 

“Will it explode?” Wynne asks, dog-earring her page before laying her novel aside.

 

Several students near them scatter to another table or arm chair in the common room, obviously not trusting anything Sirius has touched. On the other hand, Merriweather Grayjoy remains firmly seated, though her quill stops scratching against her unrolled scroll.

 

“That depends. Do you _want_ the sort of birthday present that explodes? Because I told Peter that you would, and he insisted I was wrong. I wouldn't mind if you told him off for it.”

 

Sliding around the back of Wynne's seat to reach an open chair at the table, Remus rolls his eyes extravagantly.

 

“No,” answers Wynne with decided firmness. “Peter was absolutely correct.”

 

“ _Sisters_ ,” Peter shouts boastfully from where he lurks near Sirius's left shoulder. He tosses his arms in the air, looking positively gleeful. “I have knowledge of women that you could not even begin to imagine, Black!”

 

Sirius jabs his elbow into Peter's gut, making the other boy grunt loudly before tottering to an armchair and collapsing.

 

“I know you just said that to make him feel better. I know you would have rather had dungbombs. Still, you'd better take this. Go on!” Waggling the package until she takes it, Sirius watches as she begins to attempt to work her way through the spello-tape.

 

“Was this necessary?” Wynne questions, trying to get a fingernail under a bit of tape. “I mean, _really_?”

 

“It extends the pleasure of opening a present,” Remus explains sagely, folding his hands across his lap. “Sirius actually went light on it. You should see our Christmas gifts to each other. James practically buys spello-tape in bulk.”

 

“A-ha!” Ripping the newsprint and tape away, Wynne finds a bar of Honeydukes and...two pairs of socks. She plucks up a pair while Sirius beams happily at her, examining them; _S.B._ is embroidered on them. Her eyebrow quirks so high she is in danger of losing it in her hair. “I...Sirius, you gave me your _socks_?”

 

“The chocolate bar has been opened a bit, too. I only found out it was your birthday at dinner when Slaughter sang to you.”

 

“And danced,” Merriweather points out, looking a bit flustered. “Yes. Dancing. It was worth the detention he got.”

 

“She fancies Van,” Wynne explains with a shake of her head.

 

“I do not _fancy_ him. I simply think he is incredibly beautiful, and would like to crawl under his robes and – ”

 

“ _Not_ in the common room, Merri,” sighs Wynne, before returning her attention to Sirius. The smile she gives him flashes quite a bit of dimple. “Thank you, Sirius. I appreciate the chocolate and socks. Er – they are clean, aren't they?”

 

“Of course!” Doing his best to appear tragically offended, Sirius grips the robes over his heart. “How could you think I would gift you with anything as _crass_ as dirty socks?”

 

“Last year you gave me a wet willy for Christmas. A wet finger, Sirius. A finger you _stuck in your mouth_ before _sticking it in my ear_.”

 

Sirius begins to laugh at the memory, before choking it down at Wynne's fiercely unimpressed look.

 

“You jumped, like, this high,” he defends, flailing one hand above the ground. “It was hysterical! James thought it was funny! Oi – James! _Potter_!”

 

“What?” Looking up from the Charms essay he is finishing, James pushes his glasses up his narrow nose.

 

“Remember last year on the train, when I gave Riley a wet willy for Christmas? That was funny, right?”

 

Giggling, James nods enthusiastically. “She practically jumped over your head!”

 

“See?” Thrusting a hand towards James, Sirius gives Wynne a pointed look. “ _Funny_.”

 

“It was a bit funny,” admits Remus, to which Wynne shakes her head.

 

“Boys,” she grumbles. “ _Disgusting_ , the whole lot of you.”

 

“Is that anyway to talk about the boy that just gave you two fantastically warm pairs of socks _and_ a chocolate bar? _For your_ _ **birthday**_ , nonetheless!”

 

“I will remember it when your birthday comes around this year.”

 

“I will look forward to it.” Sirius sniffs haughtily. “It is the 20th of November. Though I'm sure you have it noted down on your calendar – no doubt you've started shopping for me already –”

 

“You must be mad,” Wynne breaks in, bafflement written across her face. “There's just no other explanation.”

 

“Oh, don't pretend that you don't pine for me when I'm not around. Of course you've been waiting for my birthday. It's like a holiday to you, isn't it? I bet you dance around some sort of great big fire and release magnificent hawks into the wilderness to celebrate the exact moment of my birth. It's all right, Riley, many feel the same as you do.”

 

“Let him have his little delusions,” Remus urges, “It keeps him happy.”

 

“Happy birthday, Riley,” Sirius half sings, snagging Wynne's book as he backs away. “Enjoy your socks and chocolate!”

 

“Sirius, wait! I'm still reading that one!” Breaking into a run, Sirius leaps over a tiny first year girl, bolting for the staircase leading to the boys's dormitory with _Warlock of Passion_ clutched in one hand.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

 

As October begins to wind down, the Forbidden Forest comes alive with rich autumn colors, the stately evergreens like matrons among debutantes. The beauty of it all is lost on the fourth year Care of Magical Creatures class, as they are rather more preoccupied with the handful of griffins in the corral. Sirius really isn't sure what the point of putting them in a fenced area is because, really, they can fly out at any given moment, though Professor Kettleburn didn't care for him pointing it out. Riley has appeared deeply unimpressed with the entire situation from the first moment she saw the rather imposing creatures, and as soon as Professor Kettleburn begins calling for volunteers to enter the corral, she bolts for Hagrid's nearby hut.

 

Slapping James's shoulder to get his attention, Sirius mutters, “I'll be back, cover for me,” into James's ear before taking off after her. Hagrid is so consumed with staring with unabashed longing at the griffins (while pretending to weed his garden), that he seems not to have noticed that Wynne has locked herself inside his home. He does, however, take notice of Sirius.

 

“Not trying to sneak into the Forest again, are yeh?” Hagrid asks with a cheerful sort of exasperation, shoving his wiry hair out of his eyes. “I thought you'd got yer fill after nearly getting an arrow in the arse.”

 

“James _dared_ me to try and ride a centaur, what else was I supposed to do? But I'm not going in the Forest this time, actually; Riley's hiding inside your hut.” Sirius points, rolling his eyes. “I'm going to try and lure her back out. Kettleburn said if she skived off another lesson, she's going to spend the rest of her natural life in detention.”

 

“I jus' don' understand that girl – who doesn' want ter learn about interestin' creatures like griffins?” Shaking his head, Hagrid gestures towards his cabin. “Go on, then, better get her back out.”

 

“Thanks, Hagrid.” Inside the hut, Sirius finds Wynne in a chair at Hagrid's table, a large bloodhound pup in her lap. It is lapping adoringly at her neck and ears, writhing in ecstasy as Wynne scratches its ears. Guilt is painted across Wynne's face as she looks up, though it fades quickly. She watches Sirius as he shuts the door and drags a massive chair closer to her own, taking a seat before reaching out to scratch the puppy as well.

 

“Kettleburn is going to go mental if he catches you hiding in here again.” Sirius points out after a few moments. He takes the puppy's ear between two fingers, flapping the extremely large appendage until the bloodhound begins to yip sharply at him.

 

“He has a wooden leg,” says Wynne dismissively. “I can run fast enough to get back to the class before he can get up the steps.”

 

“Pete got the package from his sister today.” Appearing rather startled at the non sequitur, it takes a moment for understanding to blossom across Wynne's features. Her mouth goes slack, and the puppy easily catches the hand she had been keep just out of his grasp. She flinches as it sinks sharp teeth into her fingers, gnawing playfully.

 

“What – are you _kidding_?”

 

“No. Why would I? You _are_ still going to make it for us, aren't you?” Stomach twisting nervously, Sirius's mouth goes dry. What if she's changed her mind? He doesn't want to have use a memory charm on her, but what else _can_ he do?

 

“I said I would,” Wynne answers sharply, though she's rather pale. “And I will. I just – listen, I'm not asking you to tell me what you boys are up to. I know you won't, and anyway, it's really none of my concern. But I'm...worried. The Primordialis Ipse Draught is serious business. In some people, the side effects can be – ”

 

“You worry too much. We'll be fine.” Waving a hand as though he can brush away her concerns, Sirius cuts off her. “We've done our research. We know the risks. But we're willing to take them, and anyway, they're rare if the practitioner is well prepared.”

 

“But what if I mess the Draught up?” Voice gone small and thin, Wynne seems unable to meet Sirius's eyes. “What if I do something wrong, and – and you _die_?”

 

“We'll all be perfectly fine, because you aren't going to mess up. You're brilliant at potions, loads better than Snivellus and Evans –”

 

“Oh, now, no I'm not.” Shaking her head frantically, Wynne flutters a hand at Sirius. The puppy nearly topples out of her lap attempting to catch her fingers. “Snape might be a total git, but he's a genius at potions. He _is._ Watching him brew a potion is like watching a master artist paint. He just _gets_ it.”

 

“Merlin, Riley, do you _fancy_ that slime ball or something?” Scowling darkly, Sirius fails to fight down a surge of anger. Like he'd let _that_ happen – the day Riley starts dating _Snivellus Greasy_ would be the day Sirius dropped the little freak off the Astronomy Tower.

 

“Oh, for the love of – _no_ , Sirius, I do _not_ fancy Snape. Are you mad? I don't have to like him to respect the fact he really has a gift.” Sighing through her nose in obvious annoyance, Wynne gives Sirius a rather dark look.

 

“Good. Well, come on, we had better get back to class. Kettleburn will notice if we're gone much longer. I'll let the others know you'll be up tonight to start the Draught after dinner.”

 

“Uh – _what_? No! I can't start it tonight!” The puppy begins to cry loudly when Wynne puts him down. She slides out of the chair, looking positively spooked. “Do you know how long it _takes_ to start it? I'll need _hours_! It'll have to wait until Saturday or Sunday, when I can spend all day with it.”

 

“What? But we've already had to wait!” Annoyance written plainly across his face, Sirius shakes his head violently.

 

“I am not staying up all night to work on the Draught. I'll mess it up if I do.”

 

Sirius can't help but roll his eyes.

 

“Now you're just being paranoid. Come on, Riley, just –” Snapping his mouth shut as Wynne cuts him off, Sirius is taken aback by her vehement refusal.

 

“ _No_ , Sirius, not until this weekend. I need a whole day to tend to it. It can't be rushed!” Wearing a look that brooks no refusal, Wynne gives him a stern glower.

 

“Whatever,” Sirius grumbles, shoving Wynne out the back door. “Just throw the ingredients in, and then boom, you're done. But if you want to be all obsessive about it – ”

 

“Throw them _in –_ are you mad? You don't just _throw_ your ingredients in! You carefully, methodically add them in. For example, in the –”

 

“ _No_. Not listening to this. When you start talking about potions it's like listening to Binns, I can't stay awake.”

 

“Why are we friends?” Wynne demands shrilly. Sirius has to wrap his hand around her arm to continue propelling her forward. “You, Sirius Black, are an _arse_.”

 

“I _have_ an arse,” he admits reasonably. “And according to Mary Macdonald, it's quite nice.”

 

“Well, _bully_ for Mary.” Snapping her mouth shut as they come up on milling group of their classmates, together they slid past a few students to stand close to James. Wynne spends the rest of their Care of Magical Creatures class ignoring Sirius, silently seething. She is not above hiding behind Sirius, however, when Kettleburn begins picking out students that have not had their time in the corral with the griffins.

 

“I haven't introduced myself, Professor!” Sirius calls, tossing one long arm in the air. James catches on quickly and gives him a nod of approval, while Wynne squeaks loudly and attempts to scamper away. Sirius loops an arm around her shoulders, pulling her with him as he steps forward. “And neither has Riley, sir.”

 

“Oh...well... ” Blinking in astonishment at Wynne, Kettleburn stares for a moment before breaking into a wide grin. “That's the spirit, Black! Five points each to Gryffindor – and another five to you, Miss Riley, if you actually get through your introductions to the griffins without crying.”

 

“I hate you so much,” Wynne begins to hiss quietly, dragging her feet as Sirius tugs her into corral. “I hope you _die_ – you stupid – filthy – vile – nasty – no, no, you can't make me; I have no interest in getting close to something that would willingly eat my innards!”

 

“Come on, Riley, show us some Gryffindor spirit!”

 

If looks could kill, Sirius has no doubt that he would be dead before his body hit the ground.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Half past eight on Saturday morning before Halloween, Wynne bangs into the boys' dormitory with such strength that the door crashes loudly against the wall. Droplets of water fall audibly from her hair to the stone floor, rivulets stream from her sodden nightgown, and there is murder in her blue eyes. Sirius lets out a guffaw so ear splitting that Remus, who can and has slept through Peter's bed exploding, bolts upright. He looks frantically left to right and back again, his hair sticking up in messy licks and curls.

 

“Whassat?” He questions thickly, before catching sight of Wynne. “ _What_? R-R- _Riley_?” he asks around a jaw-cracking yawn.

 

Sirius staggers to James, clinging to his friend for support. His stomach cramps with the force of his laughter.

 

“Your...face!” He gasps brokenly, stomping one foot. “You...should see...all wet...”

 

“ _Black_!” she howls, launching forward.

 

James plants a hand between Sirius's shoulders and shoves, side stepping away at the same time.

 

“Sorry, mate,” he says, though he sounds not the least bit apologetic as Wynne (yowling like an angry cat) tackles Sirius (whooping with laughter as tears begin to leak from the corners of his eyes) to the floor. “But you brought this on yourself.”

 

Straddling Sirius, Wynne begins to knock him about the head and shoulders with a previously abandoned bit of Quidditch gear shoved under James's bed. While it is obvious she isn't well-versed in physical violence, Sirius certainly has to give her points for sheer effort.

 

“Who's that screaming?” Peter pauses in the doorway, a bacon sandwich halfway to his mouth. He eyes land on Wynne and Sirius, as well as the puddles on floor, with a detached sort of interest. “What's happened, then?”

 

“Sirius wanted Riley here to get an early start on the Draught.” Pausing a moment to step out of the range of Sirius's flailing legs, James gestures to the tangled pair. “When she didn't come down for breakfast, he decided to fly to the girls's dormitory through the window, and then flew around the ceiling tossing water balloons to wake her up.”

 

“ _Riley_!” Sirius shrieks, his flailing becoming quite a bit more violent. “What are you _doing_? No! Stop – get your hand out of my trousers!”

 

“I am going to shove this broomstick up your _arse_ , you great bloody git!”

 

“Merlin's beard, I'm not awake enough for this,” Remus groans, flopping backwards before dragging a pillow over his face.

 

“ _How_ are we going to explain this one to Madam Pomfrey?” wonders Peter. Sirius isn't sure what he is doing – Peter has left his line of vision, and anyway, he's more concerned with the fact that Wynne is apparently not bluffing about jamming his broomstick in unmentionable places.

 

“I suppose we'll just have to show her the pictures, eh, Pete?” James asks, prompting Sirius to bash his head against the floor in an attempt to writhe around and see them.

 

“Pictures?” he demands squeakily – they wouldn't, would they? They _wouldn't..._ “What pictures? There are no _pictures_!”

 

“So help me God, Pettigrew, if you take pictures of me looking like _this_ , I will – ” Wynne begins to threaten, appearing horrified at the very thought.

 

The flash of the camera fills the dorm room, directly followed by Peter's cheerful, “Say 'cheese!'”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the first with the two beta's who have agreed to 'go steady' with me, lol! Huge thanks to piggy190 and Asille Nellum; not only are they two of the most intelligent women I've ever met, they have an astounding ability to cipher my mess, and to help me polish and make these chapters readable. 
> 
> As an off-note, I have to say that I feel terrible for Mary in this chapter (and, honestly, most the others). She's too nice (when she isn't having spastic fits about Wynne) to have go through what I put her through.

There is a curious sort of peace to potion making, Wynne Riley has found through the years. It gives a sense of purpose and adventure alike; here she makes something, there she invents, and where it is appropriate she follows her instincts and adds an extra sprinkle of crushed beetle eyes, a bare drop less of moondew. She does not find difficult potions a chore, but a challenge; can she master it? Is she clever enough?

 

Perhaps she is a bit ashamed to admit the Primordialis Ipse Draught is this to her; a challenge, an adventure spanning four months of sweat and worry, back cramping from sitting too long, the anticipation of success. It shouldn't matter so much, really – who will know? Not Professor Slughorn, who would praise her genius but also have her in detentions for the rest of her school career. Not her classmates (not _Snape_ , that stupid, slimy git that thinks he's so much better than she is; not Lily Evans, who only scores so well in potions due to Snape's tutoring). Not anyone but four boys who are keeping secrets like other boys keep pets, tucking them under their tongues and swallowing them whole before even thinking of spilling them to Wynne.

 

Still she brews. Now comes three sprigs of valerian, nine clockwise stirs, and three drops thick honey in tandem with three counter-clockwise stirs. Her hands do not shake; she thinks they may later.

 

The Draught turns a dark gray, like storm clouds or the sea when it is angry and sullen. Relief bubbles up from Wynne's stomach, tickles the back of her tongue. She adjusts the flame under the cauldron, pauses a moment after to stretch her arms and roll her neck. She's stiff, and her bum is cold and numb from sitting on the stone floor. She ought to have grabbed a cushion, but there's no use mourning it now.

 

She remembers, without warning (and in a voice that sounds like her Aunt Byrony), that she ought to set aside her pride and be worried.

 

Her friends are going to do something terrifically stupid and she is helping them. They could _die_. They could go insane, or bring out some animal part of their mind that turns them into monsters, and they'll never be the same again. And while they will take some blame, the rest will lay heavy on Wynne's shoulders. It is, after all, up the potioneer to create quality work.

 

But what was the use of saying no? Without her they would do it anyway; without her, they would poison themselves for sure. And besides, Wynne knows how terribly clever she is. It isn't Christian to admit that, is it? She inherited her mother's vanity and none of her grandparents's humble natures. At least she doesn't sin worse by attempting to lie and say she is just as humble and sweet as they would like to believe her to be.

 

Sirius toils beside his nightstand, close to where Wynne has set up her cauldron to work. He pretends to flip through a book as though he's looking for something, though he is watching Wynne work from the corner of his eye, no doubt dying to ask questions. Or to distract her.

 

The boy can't seem to stand silences. Or _not_ being the center of attention. Wynne can't keep a smile from kicking up the corners of her mouth as she begins to measure out unicorn urine. He's been quiet since he and James returned from Quidditch practice, though after his shower, he paced circles while his wet hair soaked his collar. The whole time he made notes in a book, scribbling in the margins; up until a few minutes ago, he had still been making notes and pacing.

 

He hides the covers between the pages of _Martin Miggs_ comic. Wynne figures he doesn't want her to know what he is reading, and she admits that while she would like to know, it is probably best she doesn't. Plausible deniability will be a good thing to have when he and his mates fill the Headmaster's office with custard or some such.

 

“Aren't you done yet?” Sirius finally asks, huffing as he turns to face Wynne. She gives him a tolerant sort of look (bless the boy, but he's the most inpatient person she's ever known), shaking her head.

 

“Leave her be, Sirius,” sighs Remus from his bed. He is flicking through the pages of his History of Magic book, a nearly completed essay on his knees. Ink is smeared across his nose, and he doesn't look up from the pages his book once. “She'll be done when the Draught is finished, and not a moment before.”

 

“When the Draught is began,” corrects Wynne with another smile. Away goes the phial of unicorn urine, out come the daisy roots, a small cutting board, and a knife. The repetitive motion of chopping is rather soothing. “Won't be four months before it's finished.”

 

“Mmm,” Remus agrees before his quill begins to scratch at his parchment.

 

“How much longer then until it's ' _began_?'” Sirius corrects himself with an exaggerated wave of his hands.

 

“I'm nearly finished.” Dragon scales now, before adding the chopped daisy roots. They're shiny still; the shimmering blue of a Swedish Short-snout. Wynne wonders idly at who would be mad enough to scrape scales from a dragon to fill a potioneer's kit, and then smirks as she realizes four such boys are around her. James and Sirius would lead that vanguard, while Remus held their backs and Peter cleverly distracted the dragon.

 

James sits with Peter on the latter's bed, bending over Peter's Transfiguration homework. It's a difficult subject for the chubby boy, Wynne knows; as hard for him as Arithmancy is for her. James instructs Peter with a patience he rarely displays off the Quidditch field, correcting mistakes and praising every advancement Peter makes.

 

Wynne watches them a moment, smiling as she thinks, _I'm lucky to have friends like these boys._ Sirius looks at her with a frown, though, no doubt annoyed that she is spending time gazing off at his friends when she should be focusing on the Draught.

 

The daisy roots, finally. Nine stirs, a breath of reflection, and now comes the fluxweed. She remembers Slughorn's voice, a ghost in forefront of her mind, _a good potioneer can recreate any potion, draught, or elixir placed before them; it takes brilliance to improve upon it._

 

The recipe calls for four scruples of fluxweed. Wynne adds six, better to counteract the ptolemy used for the base. Her heart shudders, her stomach knots, and her tongue becomes so thick and dry she fears she will never swallow again. But she lifts her wand, holds it above the surface of the Draught and gives a flick of her wrist.

 

For a moment nothing happens, and Wynne thinks she will burst into tears, scream, heft the cauldron above her head and toss it through the window. She'll have to start over, and this time use _four_ scruples, not six, because obviously she isn't half as brilliant as she thought –

 

But then she notices that the steam coming from the potion is periwinkle blue. Wynne swallows as she leans over the cauldron, eyes watering from steam and heat and the sharp, particular scent of the newly began Draught; the surface is smooth and unblemished, a bright silver. (It reminds her of Sirius's eyes when he laughs, but that is probably only because she has been reading far too many romance novels full of witches who notice such things.)

 

“I did it.” There is a long pause, as four sets of eyes swing to Wynne. She looks up, meets each gaze in turn; Remus, Peter, James, Sirius. Looking back down, she presses a palm to the side of the cauldron, so hot it brings pain. She leaves it there a moment, proof that this work she has done is solid and tangible and real. “I really did it.”

 

Sirius whoops and tosses his book over his shoulder, bolting around the cauldron to drag Wynne up. He has to hold her, seeing as her feet and legs are numb and bloodless from sitting so long – they ache and burn as feeling returns. He carries her far enough away that he can swing her around, like she's a toy and he's a careless boy, squeezing so hard her ribs seem afraid of cracking.

 

“I knew you could do it!” Sirius plops her down after his announcement, and gets a few ruffles of her hair in before James has her in a headlock. She squeals and shrieks and flails, but she is no match for this boy and his wiry strength.

 

“Good job, Riley, good _job_!” cheers James, his knuckles grinding fiercely into her skull. When he releases her, Wynne staggers, hands clamped to the top of her head. She tries to appear surly and put out, but her grin won't fade. It curls up so high her cheeks strain.

 

“You're brilliant,” Peter vows loyally, hands fluttering with nervous excitement. “Nicely done.”

 

Remus doesn't say anything. He just smiles, speechless, glowing with some hopeful brilliance that Wynne does not understand, but appreciates all the same. He looks at her as though she has handed him a gift of gold and jewels, heaped treasure at his feet and made him a rich man.

 

“Write odes to my brilliance,” demands Wynne with a laugh, attempting to rake her fingers though her hair at the same time. It's snarled and frizzy and tangles around the digits; Wynne fears what she looks like at this moment. “I'm off for a hot soak. Goodnight, boys.”

 

Later she thinks the scented, bubbling oil she pours into her bathwater smells less like sandalwood and more like success than usual.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Two weeks to the day after the Draught had been begun, Wynne shambles into the Great Hall. Her hair is tamed into loose curls, her make-up is firmly in place, and her perfume has been sprayed. Still she isn't fully awake; her eyes droop and she dreads the day ahead.

 

Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Herbology await her today. Afterward she will lock herself in the fourth year boys dormitory once more, where she will ladle four ounces of this unbound Draught into four little cauldrons she has squirreled away over the years (though never in anticipation of _this_ ). She will add blood from each boy, and then the venom of the basilisk; those four little potions will boil for hours, and then simmer for a week. The remainder, untainted by either blood or diluted venom, will continue simmering quietly, undisturbed until Wynne needs use of it later on.

 

She dreads this part. It makes her stomach cramp with nerves. Basilisk venom is no game, no joke the boys might play with few consequences, diluted or not. She knows she is clever enough to manage it, is _Gryffindor_ enough to solider on despite her worries, but still she fears. Not loudly, nor unending; it comes and goes as thoughts are wont to do, and Wynne is happier when it is gone than when it is with her.

 

But for now it is early and she takes a place at the Gryffindor table beside Merriweather, accepting the cup of coffee Merri has already fixed to Wynne's standers (yet another reason why she is Wynne's dearest friend), while three of their dorm mates – Lily, Ursula, and Betty – sit across the table and discuss their upcoming day.

 

Two second year students sit between Wynne and Mary Mcdonald, who leans against Sirius's shoulder while he talks to James in a low voice. Sirius and Mary are holding hands under the table, and Wynne very firmly ignores a flare of irritation when she notices it.

 

“How long do you think that'll last?” Merri asks quietly from Wynne's other side, peering down the table. Wynne shrugs, taking a long sip of her coffee.

 

“Don't know, and I don't rightly care, so long as I don't have to watch them snog or anything.” She has watched, though. A week they've been dating and Mary attaches herself to Sirius lips every chance she can get. At night all Mary talks about is Sirius, Sirius, Sirius; an endless litany of his hair, his eyes, his hands, his smile, how clever and funny and sweet he can be.

 

Wynne thinks sourly, _I knew all that before her_ , but follows the thought with, _stop being an idiot_ , and takes a bite of her toast.

 

It's not that she _fancies_ Sirius. It's just that she has a bit of a problem _sharing_.

 

“For someone who doesn't care, you're sure glaring holes through poor Mary's head,” Lily notes, her green eyes full of laughter. Wynne hadn't even realized the other girl was listening to their conversation, and Wynne gives her a dark, haughty sort of look in response.

 

“Oh, _please_ ,” sniffs Wynne. “I don't know why you girls have got it in your heads that I fancy Sirius, or care that he's dating Mary. Because I don't. Sirius and I are friends, and that's all.”

 

“I don't believe anyone mentioned you 'fancying' Sirius.” The bite Lily takes out of her toast is smug, crumbles falling arrogantly to the table. Wynne glowers while Merriweather snickers.

 

The day passes much as any other. Arithmancy is a struggle, but Wynne is too stubborn to drop it. Sirius is in the habit of leaning over his own desk to spy Wynne's work over her shoulder, pointing out where she has fudged a notation or mangled a formula, snickering about it the whole time. It's easy for him, and he can't understand why it's _not_ for her. James is far too busy staring at Lily as he ruffles his hair to pay attention to class; not that he needs to. It comes easy to him, as well.

 

By the end of the day, as Wynne drags herself back to Gryffindor Tower, she wants nothing more than rest. No homework, no Draught, no Mary hanging off Sirius while he kisses her neck; nothing but Wynne, her jimjams, and a good novel. Luckily the weekend is coming up, and she promises herself a lazy Sunday if she finishes all her work tomorrow.

 

She drops her things off in her dorm room and heads into the boy's dormitory, banging in without a knock. They look up and look away again, unconcerned by her appearance at this point. Remus is reading _Treasure Island_ , while Sirius and James and Peter swing on cloaks.

 

“Want to come down to the Pitch and watch us practice?” asks Sirius, broomstick leaning on one shoulder. “You can keep Mary and Pete company.”

 

“Because I have nothing better to do than watch you hit bludgers.” Wynne snips dryly. Sirius gives her a look of affront, nose going into the air as he gathers his wounded dignity like a cloak. Rubbing one hand against her forehead, Wynne's allows her shoulders to slump. “Sorry. I'm sorry. I have a terrible headache.”

 

“We'll bring you back a potion from Madam Pomfrey,” promises Peter, and Wynne can't keep from smiling at him. She reminds herself again how lucky she is to have these four boys as friends, and blows three kisses.

 

“Be brave, my strapping Quidditch players!” She heralds them off, making James laugh and swagger even more than usual. “Stay warm, you brave onlooker!”

 

In short order it is only Wynne and Remus. He remains behind his book, and Wynne is fine with that. She sets up the four cauldrons (she had brought them up during lunch), and finds the promised phials of blood on James's bedside table. The problem is that there are only three, each one one with a handwritten label; _James, Peter, Sirius_.

 

“Remus,” Wynne calls, doing her very best to not sound as frustrated as she feels. “I know it's a bit creepy, but I need you to bleed into a phial for me. Hold on, I've got some empty ones in my kit...”

 

“Actually, that won't be necessary.” Marking his place in the book with one finger, Remus lowers it. He's propped up on his pillows, sandy curls ruffled, and he's rather pale. He's sick often, spends more time in the Hospital Wing than anyone else. “I'm not going to be indulging in the Primordialis Ipse Draught.”

 

“But...” looking helplessly to the four, size three cauldrons, Wynne struggles to figure it out. She's tired. Her head throbs. It takes her longer than it should. “Oh – I didn't know. You should have told me at the beginning; I made a batch for four, not three.”

 

“You'll have extra, just in case,” soothes Remus with a smile. He disappears once again behind his book, and Wynne opens her mouth to ask, w _hy_? Why not join his friends in whatever dangerous game they're playing? Hoping to create familiars from dragons, or change themselves into animals – why wouldn't Remus be as much a part of it as his friends?

 

Wynne doesn't ask, though. The reason is probably that he has more good sense than James and Peter and Sirius combined, and it is simply best to leave it there.

 

Wynne dips out twelve ounces; four here, and here, and here. She lights fires under them on miniscule burners, tapping her wand against them until the flame is just right. Now she pulls out the diluted basilisk venom in its glass phial and dropper. She sits it beside the three phials of blood, which are close to her right hand. She lines up cinnamon, ground griffin claws, and rose thorns beside it.

 

She makes labels for the cauldrons and sticks them on with a charm, so they won't be mixed up. In first goes the ground griffin claws, just a pinch. Next is the cinnamon, a dram, and three rose thorns; Wynne is careful not to prick herself. A drop of her blood will ruin it.

 

She pours Peter's blood in the first cauldron. The Draught begins to swirl on its own, mist curling like ringlets above it. Wynne checks her book, just to make sure this is correct; it is. Now she lifts the basilisk venom, pulls the dropper out and adds two drops.

 

The potion _hisses_ , and Wynne squeals as the mist converges into the image of a great fanged snake, a miniature basilisk. Hissing, a forked tongue licks the air before it lunges at Wynne's throat. She topples backward – narrowly avoiding knocking Peter's potion over with her foot, and by only a lucky chance does she not spill the precious venom all over the floor.

 

“Wynne!” Remus lunges from his bed with such speed that Wynne has no time to do more than draw a shaking breath before his arm is under her shoulders, lifting her up. She sits, hands trembling with such violence that Remus takes the venom and dropper from her, plugs it tight and sits it far away. “Are you all right? Did it hurt you?”

 

“I hurt me,” admits Wynne sheepishly, laughing with a touch of hysteria. She rubs the back of her head, where she suspects a lump will rise. Her headache doubles, and her heartbeat makes her temples ache. “I wasn't expecting that reaction, though I should have been. I'm fine. Just fine.”

 

Remus fusses over her like a mother hen, making her eat half a bar of chocolate to steady her nerves before letting her go on. She checks on Peter's potion; it has turned a pale, weak yellow, like winter sunlight breaking through snow filled clouds. The blood makes the potion unique, and different to each individual; right now it is sickly, being eaten by the venom. When she adds the phoenix tears, the reaction will purify the Draught, revealing the true essence of the blood-giver.

 

She does James's second. This time the basilisk made of smoke is wound in coils, fat as though it has just eaten a tasty meal of human flesh. He coughs up misty bones, and Wynne curls her nose and fights back a gag – disgusting.

 

James's turns a dark, muddy brown. It thickens (while Peter's seems to thin), sludge like. It smells faintly of sewage.

 

Sirius's Draught is last. The smoke snake makes its last appearance; it sheds its skin, raw and fresh, and begins to eat its own tail. This one Wynne bats away, though her heart is in her throat and her stomach twists. She thinks she'll have nightmares of misty snakes and basilisk venom for a while.

 

The Draught with Sirius's blood _looks_ like blood; rusty, thick, and dark. It smells metallic.

 

She meets James and Sirius and Peter on their way up to their dorm while she is leaving. Peter passes her a headache potion, which she takes with obvious gratefulness, while James and Sirius take turns ruffling her hair.

 

“Goodnight,” she calls over her shoulder as they continue up the steps.

 

“Night, Riley!” They chorus like particularly well-trained parrots. Despite the throbbing of her head, Wynne feels just the tiniest bit chipper.

 

 

 

\----X----

 

 

 

 

On the evening of Sirius's birthday, he sits in the common room playing a game of Exploding Snap with James and Peter; Remus has taken ill again, and is ensconced in the Hospital Wing. Mary is close by, studying with Lily and Ursula and Betty and Merriweather. Wynne should be studying as well, but she has been up to check on the Draught (it simmers away quite nicely), and after had gone to up to her dorm room to fetch a little package.

 

She has used real wrapping paper, unlike _some_ people. It has snitches and quaffles and bludgers all over it, fluttering and zooming and whizzing across the red background. She sneaks up behind Sirius's, holding a finger to her lips as James catches her gaze. She drapes herself over the back of Sirius's chair.

 

“Happy birthday!” She half-sings into his ear, stretched over his shoulders to offer him the present. He jumps, startled, before twisting around and grinning widely.

 

“Riley!” He plants a wet kiss on her cheek before taking his present, all smiles and cheer. “Are we still having a bonfire and releasing hawks?”

 

It takes Wynne a moment to remember, but eventually the conversation from her birthday comes back up, and she gives a great snort of amusement. Around his chair she comes to perch on the arm, resting against his shoulder.

 

“Absolutely,” she lies cheerfully, “and there will be fifteen dancing girls just for you.”

 

“Dancing girls,” sighs Sirius lustily, fingers ripping through the paper. He pulls out a pair of socks patterned with the Gryffindor lion, and gives a great bark of laughter. Another pair of socks follows; those have cauldrons resting on merry flames, which makes Sirius laugh even harder. “Where did you even _find_ these?”

 

“You'd be amazed at what a girl can buy at _Gladrags_.” Wynne tweaks his ear, watching as he pulls out the pack of dungbombs as well.

 

“Aw, Riley,” Sirius coos playfully, fluttering his girlishly long eyelashes as he presses a hand to his chest. “You know me so well!”

 

“Which means I better not get another wet willy for Christmas, or I'm taking those lovely socks of yours back.”

 

She sits with him as the boys finish their hand of Exploding Snap (Peter's sleeve catches on fire), and then allows them to deal her in. Afterward she goes up to her tower dorm room, where it will be quiet and peaceful until the other girls swarm in.

 

Wynne has pulled a nightgown from her wardrobe and is prepared to head off for a hot shower when the curtains of Mary's bed fly open. Wynne staggers backward with a shriek, feeling as though her heart is attempting to leap out of her chest.

 

“Oh God,” she gasps raggedly, “Mary! I didn't know you were up here, you scared me!” Laughing the fright off, Wynne rakes a hand through part of her hair.

 

“I don't suppose you would notice when I left the common room, would you?” The girl sounds sour; her mouth is twisted up, and her eyes are gleaming balefully.

 

“Well, I don't keep tabs on you,” Wynne admits, shrugging. Mary snorts scornfully, and then – quite to Wynne's shock – begins to cry.

 

“You're a nasty girl, Wynne Riley,” sobs Mary bitterly. “He's my boyfriend, not yours!”

 

Wynne catches on quickly. She wants to storm off to the bathroom and take her shower, but Mary's bawling and the others will be up soon. No doubt Mary will keen and gnash her teeth all night if Wynne doesn't try and sooth her now.

 

“Sirius is my friend,” says Wynne in a tone much sharper than she had intended. “We were friends long before you and he started dating, and I reckon we'll still be friends long after you two break up.”

 

“We won't break up! We won't ever break up, you just wait and see! We're going to stay together forever, and get married and have babies, and one day everyone will call me 'Madam Black' and bow their heads when I enter a room!” Mary hurls a book at Wynne. She ducks, but the corner still catches the side of her neck.

 

“Don't be _stupid_.” Pulling her wand, Wynne brandishes it warningly. “You're fourteen and he's only been fifteen a few hours. There's no way the two of you are going to stay together 'forever.'”

 

“You don't understand our love!” Mary tosses a pillow at her. Wynne banishes it, and sticks her tongue out. “We _will_! You just wait and see!”

 

“Whatever,” grumbles Wynne, sticking her wand back up her sleeve before snagging her dressing gown from the end of her bed. She stomps to the bathroom, not sure even hot water and sweet soap can wash away her surliness.

 

_You don't understand our love_ , Mary's word echo with a new, mocking tone though Wynne's mind as she bathes. _We're going to stay together forever, and get married and have babies, and one day everyone will call me 'Madam Black' and bow their heads when I enter a room!_

 

Mary has always been level headed, but it seems love has befuddled her. Wynne can sympathize, truly she can (Bernard proved how stupid she can be, that is certain), but Wynne likes to think of herself as a practical girl. Practically speaking, not everyone is as lucky as her Uncle Cary and Aunt Byrony, who were childhood sweethearts. It's rare, she thinks, and special; it takes a love that most teenagers aren't capable of, due to the amount of self-sacrifice required.

 

But what does it matter to her if Mary is planning a wedding that will almost certainly never happen? And even if it does, that will be years and years away...

 

_Because_ , a traitorous voice whispers slyly, _he was mine first_.

 

“Was not,” answers Wynne meanly, scrubbing her scalp with such vigor that it may bleed before she finishes. “He wasn't ever mine. We're just mates, and that's it. Just friends.”

 

_Saying it enough times won't make it true_ , that voice says, _we haven't been 'just friends' in a long time._

 

Later, after she is scrubbed clean, Wynne is glad for the Dreamless Sleep Draught she brews regularly and keeps in her nightstand. She takes a measure before pulling her eye mask down, retreating gratefully into a peaceful sleep where that ridiculous inner voice (and dreams of Sirius and Mary's wedding) cannot follow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Staggering amounts of thanks to my betas, piggy190 and Asille Nellum. They are fantastic at what they do, and have yet to go blind from my often times brain melting mistakes. ;)

 

“Don't be ridiculous, Sirius, of course you're coming home for the holiday. Mother and Father are expecting you, and on Yuletide we're going to the Manor...” Breath creating a misty fog as he speaks, Regulus waves one gloved hand. His nose and cheeks are red from the cold, while his cloak and scarf and hair flutter in a gust of wind that carries snowflakes on its currents. The Hogsmeade Station is full of shouting and laughter as students press forward onto the Hogwarts Express, which is waiting to carry them home for the Christmas holiday.

 

Sirius sighs at Regulus's words, folding his arms across his chest.

 

“Mother was quite clear in her last letter,” says Sirius, irritation plainly written across his sharp features. “She doesn't want me to make a scene like last year at Bella's engagement party. If I'm not there, I can't make a scene, now can I?”

 

“You called Lord Voldemort a 'nancy little man' in front of two hundred of Aunt Druella and Uncle Cygnus' guests.”

 

“Attacking muggles,” Sirius scoffs with a dark sneer. “Oh yes, that is a _terribly_ valiant and noble pursuit. The poor buggers have even less magic than a squib, how are they supposed to fight back? He _is_ a nancy little man, and I won't ever raise a toast to him.”

 

“It doesn't matter if that is how you actually feel; it does, however, matter how you _act_. Defy Mother and Father and the rest of the family in private, but when we are together, most especially when we are in public, you _must_ remember your place!”

 

“You sound like her, do you realize that?” It makes Sirius's head pound, fighting with Regulus. He spent eleven years protecting his soft-spoken, wide-eyed brother. He had been such a sensitive child, nothing like Sirius; their mother could reduce the younger boy to tears with only a few sharp words, and Regulus lived in abject fear of their father's anger.

 

Sirius still wants to protect his brother. Tuck him in cotton wool and hide him in Hogwarts, far away from their parents and their mania, from their cousins and aunts and uncles who lift their glasses to this new Dark Lord. But Regulus has grown older, has adopted their mother's tone of voice and their father's cold eyes.

 

“Mother will be hurt if you don't come home,” Regulus admits with drooping shoulders. “And Father will be terribly cross with you.”

 

“That old hag will be thrilled not to have me there, the _shame_ of the family.” Regulus _must_ be going soft in the head to think otherwise, Sirius thinks with a scoff. “And Father will be delighted, showing off the son that _should_ have been his heir.”

 

“That's not true, Sirius. If you would just _try_ , I promise it would be – ”

 

“Happy Christmas, Reg,” sighs Sirius, pulling his brother into brief hug. “Tell Uncle Alphard the same, for me. I'll see you next year.”

 

“Happy Christmas,” Regulus repeats with a quiet sort of anger, drawing his cloak tightly about him before he turns on his heel and stalks away.

 

Mary hangs out of the frosty window she's yanked down, waving a mitten covered hand at Sirius. He waves back, not nearly as cheerfully as he should, and gives only a grimacing sort of smile when she blows him a kiss. It isn't Mary's fault that he's angry with his brother (with nearly his entire family), but she understands so much better than most others. Mary's mother is a Muggle through and through, and when Mary's wizard father married her, the Mcdonald family (not wealthy, but old and nearly as pure blooded as the Black's) had turned their backs on them.

 

He half wishes she wasn't leaving, that they could steal away and Sirius could tell her what is happening. His mother's letter ( _you are the heir to our Noble family, Sirius, you must begin acting as such. You will be a man in only a few short years, and you must begin learning how to behave with the dignity of your birth_ ), Regulus's anger, the fall-out he knows is coming when his parents realize he has stayed at Hogwarts.

 

But she is on her way home for three weeks of Christmas cheer with her family, decking out a tree and tossing ripped wrapping paper in the way Sirius has imagined, but never experienced with his own family.

 

A shriek of laughter cuts across the noise of the crowded station, one Sirius knows well. He turns and catches sight of Wynne, stocking clad legs tangled in her cloak as Donovan Slaughter hoists her into the air and scatters wet, messy kisses all over her face and neck.

 

“Put me down, you mad man, put me _down_!” Slaughter laughs as though she's told some fantastic joke, dropping Wynne back to her feet. She staggers a bit, trying to catch her balance, before slapping at Slaughter's chest and arms.

 

Sirius pushes through the crowd, and by the time he's reached Wynne's side Slaughter has hefted his trunk onto his shoulder, his bulk making it easy to push through younger students and board the Express. Wynne is still laughing, though quieter, flushed and cheerful with snowflakes melting in her hair and pale eyelashes.

 

“Got a bit of slobber on your face,” says Sirius with a faint grin, pointing to Wynne's cheek. She swipes it away and sticks her tongue out, a noise of disgust escaping her throat.

 

“Disgusting,” she grumbles with no actual malice, rolling her eyes. She turns in a swirl of her thick cloak and sweet perfume, flashing dimples and white teeth as she beams at Sirius. “Got your trunk loaded up already, then? Come here, give me a hug; three whole weeks without you annoying me half to death, whatever am I going to do with myself?”

 

Sirius hugs Wynne hard enough that she squeaks, keeping an arm around her shoulders as he turns them away from the Express. He guides them through the thinning crowd to the steps leading off the Station platform.

 

“I thought you might pine if I left you all alone, so I gave up my own holiday to keep you company.” Pressing a hand to his chest, Sirius gives Wynne look brimming with noble sacrifice.

 

“What? You're staying at Hogwarts for the holiday?” Bouncing excitedly under Sirius's arm, Wynne lights up. She claps her hands together excitedly, radiating cheer. “Brilliant! I'm so excited – we can open our presents together, and maybe we can get a little tree to put in the common room that we can decorate, and, oh! We can go into Hogsmeade for News Year's Eve, I bet Professor McGonagall will let us, so long as we're back in the castle before curfew...”

 

“Forget that, why don't we sneak out and rent a room at the Three Broomsticks?” suggests Sirius, his foul mood quickly fleeing in the face of Wynne's happiness, and the prospect of some rule breaking, of course.

 

“Uh, because we're underage and Madam Rosmerta will send an owl to Professor McGonagall?”

 

“Rosmerta loves me.” Waving one hand, Sirius gives Wynne a wide grin and wink. “And she also loves galleons. Trust me, I can convince her.”

 

“I'm just telling you now, when we're sitting in Dumbledore's office explaining why we were caught at the Broomsticks after curfew, I'm telling them it was all your fault.”

 

“Oh, right. Because I'm going to drag you there at wand point.”

 

“That is exactly what I'll tell them. I'll even cry. Who can resist the sight of a young woman in tears? 'It was awful!' I'll say, 'He took Hootie hostage –'”

 

“ _Hootie_?”

 

“Hootie,” replies Wynne, her nose climbing high into the air. Her expression is best described as _haughty_ , Sirius decides, and he can't help but roll his eyes at it. “My owl.”

 

“You named the poor creature _Hootie_?”

 

“I was eleven,” Wynne attempts to defend herself. “Oh, do you want to go the the Broomsticks for Butterbeer? McGonagall said it would be alright for those of us staying to visit the village today.”

 

The snow is beginning to come down heavier, in fat flakes that are sneaking down Sirius's collar, melting against his neck and soaking into the fabric of his jumper. The lane leading from the Hogsmeade Station is turning white, while snow beings to accumulate on the bare branches of the surrounding trees. Autumn had lingered as long as it could, but it seems winter is taking hold with a sudden vengeance.

 

“Not only does Butterbeer sound fantastic, I will be able to prove to you exactly how much Rosmerta adores me. She wants to take me as a young, robust lover.” The last bit Sirius hisses in a playful undertone, while Wynne sputters in outraged laughter.

 

The walk to the village is long, but enjoyable. Sirius and Wynne bicker and tease back and forth, and when Sirius 'accidentally' trips Wynne, it turns into a fifteen minute break to make snow angels in rapidly piling up snow. By the time they enter the Three Broomsticks, their hair is damp, noses and cheeks are brilliant red from the bitingly cold wind, and their sides ache with laughter.

 

Wynne springs for the first round of Butterbeer, pressing the money into Sirius's palm before scampering to a table near the fire. She sets about unwinding her scarf and shaking out her wet cloak, shivering contentedly as the nearby flames go about warming her up.

 

“ _Butterbeer_ ,” Wynne cries in the tone of one who has been presented with all their dreams come true, obviously ecstatic as Sirius passes her bottle over. “Oh, how I love thee...” They settle into a rare, comfortable silence as they enjoy their drinks, and Sirius feels very much as though he made the correct choice in staying at Hogwarts this year.

 

Not quite half an hour later, Sirius can see that Wynne is about to slide out of her chair and under the little table they had so recently been sharing. Tears glisten on her cheeks as she gasps for air past the spasms of laughter that have overtaken her, escaping with such force that she snorts before slapping a hand over her mouth and nose, though her gales of amusement are not at all diminished.

 

“Mr. Black.” Professor McGonagall is bundled under a warm tartan cloak and matching feathered cap, her lips pinched in a hard line as she peers down her nose at him. At her side Flitwick is cleaning his glasses so intently that one would think he took no notice of what was happening around, though Sirius suspects the faint wheezing he hears is Flitwick's attempts to swallow down chuckles. “Would you care to explain to me why, upon entering this establishment, I was greeted by you... _propositioning_ Madam Rosmerta?”

 

The terrible part of being clever, Sirius had decided long years before, is that not everyone appreciates it. But what can he do besides grin, flicking his fringe out of his eyes as he leans against the bar before answering, “It's because I'm something of a rouge, Professor. I know, I know; you try and deny how my blistering good looks affect you, but no woman is immune to my charms. I was simply observing that were the lovely Madam of a mind, I am not unopposed to proving that there's more to me than a pretty face.”

 

At the table, Wynne outright howls her amusement, arms curled tightly around her stomach as she comes precariously close to toppling out of her chair.

 

“I suggest you think very carefully before giving me one _extremely_ good reason that I shouldn't put you in detention for the next month.” McGonagall's lips have all but disappeared at this point, and exasperation coats her words.

 

“I'm sorry, Professor?” asks Sirius with affected concern. “I'm afraid I don't follow...it's just as I said before. Were Madam Rosmerta of a mind, I am not unopposed to proving that there is more to me than my admittedly devilishly handsome looks. I thought perhaps a bit of transfiguration might to the trick.”

 

“Transfiguration?” McGonagall draws the word out slowly, eyebrows turned into mountainous peaks above her sharp eyes.

 

“Yes, Professor, transfiguration. We could go to a private room, and I could turn a goblet into a hamster. Or, perhaps, a settee into a goat. Maybe a bit of charm work, as well. I am so much _more_ than a handsome face, and I would like it if someone looked past my outside to what I keep inside.” Pressing a hand against his chest, Sirius adopts an air of tragic indignation. “It's so _hard_ being beautiful.”

 

There comes a loud _crash_ as Wynne succumbs to gravity, toppling from her chair with a gurgle of hooting, snorting laughter that _almost_ eclipses the sound of her head rebounding off the floor.

 

“Go and assist Miss Riley before she does herself some serious damage,” orders Professor McGonagall with an annoyed swish of her cloak. “And if I catch you offering to show Madam Rosmerta – or anyone else, for that matter – what you keep _inside_ again, you _will_ be in detention until you come of age.”

 

Sirius takes the two bottles of Butterbeer from the bar, daring to wink at the chuckling Rosmerta as he does so. He saunters back to Wynne, tucking the bottles into his pockets before hoisting the girl to her feet. She wobbles violently, gasping for air as she wipes tears from her face before tossing on her cloak and hastily winding her scarf around her neck. Eventually she simply collapses against Sirius's side, allowing him to guide her out of the Three Broomsticks as she has made the mistake of looking to Professor McGonagall's stern features watching them prepare to leave, and it has sent her into another bought of giggles.

 

“Your _face_ when you saw McGonagall!” Vibrating with a new wave of laughter, Wynne doubles over once they are out of the door, very nearly wailing her amusement. “Merlin's saggy bollocks, Sirius, your face! You were all –” popping up, she widens her eyes and drops her mouth in a greatly exaggerated expression of horror, “And she was like –” here she mimics McGonagall's pinched mouth and narrow eyes, even the white flare of her nostrils. “She was practically blowing flames, and I thought you were going to, I don't know, get sick on her or something, and then – and then – oh God, oh God, I can't _breathe_ , and I need a loo, and –”

 

Collapsing once more into hysterics, Wynne takes off in an awkward, hobbling run for Honeydukes and their public facilities. Sirius rolls his eyes at the sight, though he doesn't bother to attempt to wipe the grin off his face.

 

Despite how it began, Sirius thinks this holiday might well be a good one.

 

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Walburga Black does not send howlers, those shrieking, wailing missives that project her voice (though really, it's an unneeded effect, Sirius feels) to the extent that dust is shaken from the rafters of the Great Hall. All ears would be able to hear her ire towards her heir, would know the discord that rocks the Black family where their Gryffindor son is concerned.

 

Sirius wishes she would send them. Wishes that her hateful words had been put out for everyone to hear, so that he wouldn't have to tuck the letter in his pocket, smile and laugh until his sides hurt and pretend, pretend, pretend that there isn't a thing in the world to bother him.

 

On the second day of their holiday (and at Wynne's request), Hagrid finds them a little pine tree to place in the Gryffindor common room. (Small in comparison to the trees in the Great Hall, at least; at six feet, this tree looms over Wynne, though it is just barely taller than Sirius.) Wynne falls into fits of rapture over the tree and its lush branches, dancing happily around it after she and Sirius have managed to drag it into the common room and – through the use of some inventive magic and twine – placed it in front of one the large windows.

 

“Now we have to decorate it,” decrees Wynne with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, slipping her arm through Sirius's. “Garland, Christmas bobbles, lights...rather a problem though, isn't it? What will we do for lights?”

 

“Candles,” answers Sirius, brow furrowing as he gives Wynne a sideways glance. “Unless you fancy catching some fairies.”

 

“Candles? We'll burn the castle down!”

 

“We'll charm them first.” Rolling his eyes, Sirius ruffles Wynne hair fondly, sighing, “Oh, muggleborns.”

 

“Oh, purebloods,” sighs Wynne in the same manner, stretching up to dig her fingers into Sirius's thick hair. “I love it when you talk down to me.”

 

She's teasing. Sirius knows she is, knows that this is like a hundred conversations they've had before; Sirius twits her for not knowing the most common of things, Wynne tweaks him in return for being generally clueless about the workings of the muggle wold, and together they go on their merry ways. But this, on the heels of his mother's letter, rankles Sirius.

 

“If I talk down to you, then what are you doing hanging on me like a first year with her first crush?” Shaking her off, Sirius takes several backward steps. Arms folded across his chest, he scowls at Wynne so intensely that she seems staggered, shocked. Her mouth drops open and she takes a step away, blinking as she attempts to comprehend his words.

 

“A first year with a _crush_?” She repeats in a high, angry voice. “I'm not – I don't –”

 

“Well, you could have fooled me. I do have a girlfriend, you know. Mary tried to tell me that you fancied me, but I didn't listen.”

 

Gaping at him, Wynne looks as though he physically struck her, instead of simply attack with words. Color crawls up her pale neck, staining her cheeks and forehead until she's nearly the color of a Gryffindor banner. Sirius watches as her hands ball into fists at her sides, her mouth opening and closing in failed attempts to speak before she picks up an ornament from one of the boxes she had bought in Hogsmeade, hurling it at Sirius's head.

 

He doesn't even have to duck – her aim is so atrocious that it sores over his shoulder and shatters on the wall in a rain of colored shards.

 

“Oh, she tried to tell you, did she?” Wynne's voice is high, pitched so far up that she almost sounds like a house elf. “What about you, then? Did you tell your precious Mary that we shagged? Does she know about that?”

 

“Of course you'd bring _that_ up.” Shoving a hand through his hair, Sirius lets out a bark of angry laughter. “That didn't mean anything. It isn't important enough to tell her about.”

 

“You're right,” breathes Wynne in a taunt, pained way; the color drains from her face, leaving her white and bloodless, like a living corpse. “It didn't mean anything. It certainly was the worst I've ever had.”

  
“Only Merlin knows how many came after me,” answers Sirius, pride aching from that particular blow. “Fucked any professors, lately?”

 

The anger flees from Sirius seconds after he speaks, as he watches tears fill Wynne's eyes. He takes a step forward, holding out his hand as he says, “Shit. Riley, I didn't mean that –”

 

“Don't touch me!” Wynne near trips over a footstool in her haste to put distance between them. “Don't you dare – not _ever_ again –”

 

“ _Wynne_ –”

 

Wynne turns and flees, skirt flapping high around her thighs as she dashes across the common room to the stairwell leading to her dorm. Her figure has just barely disappeared up when Sirius hears a sob, echoing off the round stone walls. It hits Sirius in the way her thrown ornament had not been able to.

 

The urge to set the Christmas tree on fire is so fierce that Sirius has already drawn his wand; it's the tree's fault, really. None of this would have happened if Wynne hadn't insisted Hagrid get the bloody thing for them, then begged Sirius into helping her decorate it.

 

It looks rather pathetic, leaning to the left and dripping with tinsel Wynne had transfigured from parchment. It forces Sirius's anger to pop, like an over filled balloon, leaving him hollow and empty.

 

He puts his wand away, stepping over a box of ornaments to collapse onto an overstuffed chair.

 

“Happy Christmas,” he mutters darkly. He thinks the flames in the hearth are so accusing that he has to look away.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Wynne doesn't emerge from the girl's dormitory until well past midnight, when it is officially Christmas Eve. Sirius is sprawled across a sofa placed directly in front of the warm fire, legs and feet covered by a quilt Wynne forgot in the common room some time ago. He's got one of her books cracked open ( _My Dark Lover_ , which Sirius plans on reading experts of to Remus, as it is about a dominating werewolf scarred by an unfeeling society, and the naïve young witch that shows him the meaning of true love and passion), though he's been staring at page sixty-three for forty-five minutes, ears straining to catch the sound of Wynne leaving her ivory tower.

 

He keeps the book up, hiding his face and eyes as he catches the particular slap of her carpet slippers against the stone steps. He peeks over the top of the book, a bit startled to see Wynne in a frilly sort of dressing gown, her hair in a thick braid.

 

Quickly diving once behind the pages before Wynne notices him, Sirius swallows against his suddenly fierce heartbeat and waits for her reaction.

 

After several moments, moments that feel like minutes and not a spare few seconds, Sirius begins to wonder if she's ignoring him. Will she say anything? Throw something else at his head? Begin crying, and run back upstairs?

 

Finally, he hears her sigh – quietly, just barely audible over the crackle of the fire – before there comes the shuffle of tired footsteps and the rustle of her nightgown and dressing robe about her ankles.

 

“Move your feet,” she orders, slapping at his toes. Sirius is careful to jerk and throw his book up, widening his eyes.

 

“Oh, _Riley_!” exclaims Sirius, perhaps more loudly than is strictly necessary. “I didn't know you were there.”

 

“Then I suppose it was your evil twin I saw staring at me over _My Dark Lover_? By the way, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me finish a book before you steal it.”

 

“Borrow it,” corrects Sirius, lifting his legs up so Wynne can take a seat at the end of the couch. He keeps them up for a moment, wondering what he should do – if they weren't fighting, he'd plop his feet in her lap and nag her for a foot rub. (Nine times out of ten, he gets the foot rub, but also colorfully painted toes. He supposes it's a small price to pay.) But since their tiff, perhaps he should keep them close to his body. She may try cutting a few toes off to keep in her potion kit.

 

Wynne decides for him by throwing an arm over his ankles, forcing his legs down. When she notices the flames and cauldrons on his socks, she smiles, and Sirius feels rather hopeful.

 

“Listen,” she says after a time, one hand idly rubbing Sirius's ankle. “I know that Mary has a problem with me. I've tried to tell her that we're just friends, but she doesn't believe me. And if the way I act with you – how we are when we're together, I mean – is upsetting her _and_ you, then...well, you know, we can just...not be like that anymore. Because I'm not a...I'm not a slag. I don't go after my friends boyfriends, and I'm not trying to, I don't know, _seduce_ you or anything –”

 

“Bollocks!” Sirius nearly shouts, a laugh bubbling up his throat. He drops _My Dark Lover_ to his chest, pointing a finger at Wynne. “Look at you in that get up, all that lace and those frills, the pink silk. I know what you're up too, you hussy.”

 

Wynne snorts, appearing to be torn between amusement and outrage.

 

“This is a _nightgown_ and _robe_ , thank you,” she sniffs, “It's not my fault if you get tingly feelings in your naughty place when you see me. It's all right, though; I provoke feelings in others that they themselves do not understand.”

 

“The curse of beauty,” sighs Sirius, pressing a hand to his forehead before collapsing into laughter. When it has passed, he sits up, removing his feet from Wynne's lap and sliding close to her. He slings an arm around her neck, drawing a squeak from Wynne as he pulls her against his side, kissing her forehead.

 

“I don't want anything about us to change,” he promises, even ruffling the back of her hair. “I'm, well...I didn't mean those things I said. About...professors, and such.”

 

“When you implied that I'm a slag that shags every male I can get my hands?” asks Wynne dryly, one eyebrow quirked upwards in an expression of derision.

 

“Oi! I never said that!”

 

“I didn't say you did; I said you _implied_ it. Which is nearly as bad. But I suppose this as close as I'm going to get for an apology from you –”

 

“You're one to be talking about apologies. _I_ didn't throw a bobble at _your_ head.”

 

“I'm not sorry I did that,” Wynne defends, elbowing Sirius in the stomach. “You deserved it. I was only teasing. About the pure blood comment, I mean.”

 

“Yeah. I know.” Mood darkening, Sirius shrugs, drawing away from Wynne. “It was just bad timing. I got a letter from Mother, and...”

 

“No need to explain.” Patting his knee, Wynne pushes herself up, holding out a hand to Sirius. She wiggles her fingers, encouraging him to take it and stand. “I skipped dinner. What's say we sneak down the kitchens and make the house elves' Christmas?”

 

“They do like feeding us. It's charity, giving them the chance, really it is. Think you might want to, ah, change before we go, though?” All teasing aside, Wynne stripped of make-up and in soft silk and delicate lace really is...something. She appears softer than usual, and it makes Sirius remember weak winter sunlight on her breasts and stomach, her hair tangled around his fingers as her mouth brushed his neck in a soft, wet kiss.

 

“Are you kidding?” Wynne deftly unties her dressing gown, pulling it open to reveal a modestly cut nightgown, though with the firelight on it and – yes, those are nipples under the silk – Sirius rather feels as though he's taken a bludger to the chest. “If Filch catches us, I've got to have some way to get out of detentions, don't I?”

 

“Probably be the closest old Argus has ever been to a set of breasts that weren't his mum's,” says Sirius with a rather forced laugh, thankful that his robes hide the affect of seeing Wynne in her nightgown has provoked. It isn't fair, Sirius thinks, that this _problem_ occurs without warning. It's bad enough he has that reoccurring dream about McGonagall, but reacting to _Wynne_...?

 

“Come on,” urges Wynne, looping her arm through Sirius's, leading him towards the portrait hole. “I'm sure there is at least one Christmas pudding waiting for me to devour it.”

 

 

\----X----

 

“Sirius, it's _Christmas_. I really don't –”

 

Sighing heavily through his nose, Sirius turns away from the suit of armor he is charming, laying a narrow sort of stare on Wynne. It doesn't seem to affect her; her hands are propped on her round hips, while her painted mouth is set into a line caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement as she attempts to shame him into doing her bidding.

 

“That's right, Riley, it _is_ Christmas. Think of this as your gift to me.”

 

“I already gave you a perfectly nice present.”

 

“The only reason you gave me a subscription to _Witch Desires_ was so I'd stop snagging your books before you finish them. Besides, who gives a strapping young wizard like myself a subscription to a book club that sends housewitches dirty novels they read to try and escape the boredom of laundry and cooking and a husband whose idea of foreplay is, 'Pull up your stockings, Bertha, I'm coming in.'”

 

“I do,” answers Wynne quickly, pointing a finger at Sirius in a most accusing fashion. “You love those books and we both know it. You still haven't given my copy of _The Potion Mistress' Passion_ back yet – and don't try and and tell me you lost it, I saw it on your nightstand, so dog eared and care worn that you've got spellotape holding the binding on!”

 

Sirius can feel his ears getting hot, and the back of his neck itches comfortably. He turns away from Wynne, hoping to hide the flush from her. He can still hear the sound of Wynne's satisfaction, however, and Sirius debates hexing the smug right out of her.

 

“Really though, it is Christmas. We're going to have a lovely evening with Professor Slughorn and his guests, and –”

 

“A lovely evening with Professor _Slughorn_?” Spinning around once more, Sirius practically spits the words back to Wynne. “It won't be lovely; it will be _boring_. The only reason you enjoy his parties is because you get to dress up and do that – that _thing_ with your hair.” Gesturing widely to Wynne's hair, which has been half pinned up and has a few scarlet ribbons wound through out in the place of a proper witch's hat, Sirius feels sure he has won the argument.

 

“I'm sorry, but _which_ one of us was it that threatened not to come when he felt a pimple coming up?”

 

Opening his mouth, Sirius searches for a response. Finding none that are worthwhile, he snaps his mouth shut, giving Wynne the sort of look that commonly peels paint.

 

“It's Christmas night,” she tries again, sensing Sirius's weakness. He suspects that, much like a niffler digging up treasures, Wynne is drawn to it. “Whatever happened to peace on earth and goodwill to our fellow man?”

 

“Snape's a Slytherin, and there's a clause in there about them. That's what you get for not reading the fine print.”

 

“Oh, for the love of...” tossing her hands into the air, Wynne appears positively wroth. Sirius chortles to himself, enjoying getting so far under Wynne's skin that she appears quite close to physical violence. As Sirius goes back to work on the suits of armor, Wynne begins to pace back and forth, the heels of her fancy little shoes clacking sharply against the stone floor of the dungeon room.

 

Sirius has barely finished when Professor Slughorn passes by the open doorway, glancing inside. He doubles back, filling the opening with his girth as he eyes the two of them.

 

“Lost in the dungeons?” He asks amiably, a wry sort of smile on his face as he moves forward. “Or, perhaps, enjoying the mistletoe?”

 

Together, Sirius and Wynne lift their heads, following the direction of the professor's pointed finger. Sirius can't help but chuckle as Wynne audibly chokes when she realizes she is standing directly under the sprig. She scurries away so quickly that she bumps into Sirius's shoulder, nearly knocking herself off balance.

 

“No, Professor, it wasn't like that! We were...we were just...” floundering, Wynne gives Sirius a look of desperation.

 

“Sorry, sir,” says Sirius with not a hint of guilt. “It won't happen again.”

 

“I'll be keeping count of all hands in question tonight,” Slughorn responds with a merry twist to his lips and a bob of his head. “So please do keep them in sight at all times. Come, now. Off we go.” Once in the corridor, Slughorn offers Wynne his arm, like a gentlewizard. Wynne takes it quietly, though she seems intent on murdering Sirius with nothing more than a glare so hot it would put dragon flames to shame.

 

“I thought it would be a nice treat for all the students staying over for the holiday to have a bit of Christmas cheer.” Speaking without a single prompt, Slughorn pats Wynne's fingers, which are curled into the crook of his heavy arm. “Besides Severus and yourselves, the other students spending their holiday at Hogwarts have never had the pleasure of one of my little parties, and I know how disheartening it can be to spend the holiday away from ones family. It will be quite exciting for them, I think, and the both of you as well. I know you do enjoy my to-dos, Wynne.”

 

Sirius can't keep from rolling his eyes at Wynne's words of assurance (“Oh, yes, they're quite fun. I'm so glad that you always think to include me, Professor, I really...”)

 

“I'm sure my tetè-a-teté's do not even come close to holding a candle to the celebrations your family holds, Sirius, but I hope you will enjoy yourself nonetheless. Yes, Regulus was telling me about the annual New Year's Eve ball your family throws; he seemed to be looking forward to it. Though he left no hint that you would be spending the holidays here...” Perhaps fishing for some useful information, Slughorn casts a sly, searching sort of glance towards Sirius from the corner of his eye. As though Sirius is stupid enough to hand information like that over to the Slytherin Head of House.

 

But of course Regulus was looking forward to that stupid ball. It was _Sirius_ that dreaded it each year; the side of the mouth comments about the Black heir that was sorted into Gryffindor, the boy that willingly consorts with mud-bloods and blood traitors....no, they don't affect Regulus one bit. He is shown off like a well-groomed thoroughbred; a well-spoken little Slytherin that swallows the Black family mania like a honey laced poison.

 

“I didn't want Wynne to spend Christmas alone,” is what Sirius says instead of, _I'd rather burn my broom than go that idiotic ball with my mad family and their equally mad friends._ He also forgets to add, _because Riley is staying to keep an eye on the Primordialis Ipse Draught she's brewing for me and my friends._ Omitting some details to leave the basic truth, Sirius has found, is the very best way to avoid being caught in a lie.

 

“Ah, you are indeed a noble young man, as befits your station as heir to your ancient family. Here we are, now. Go on, have a seat; just a light supper for now.”

 

The table is not large, as only a handful of guests have consented to spend their Christmas evening at Slughorn's party, and the number of students remaining at Hogwarts are fewer than that; a little more or a little less than thirty persons have gathered here this evening, nearly all of them fully adult wizards and witches. Snape has already arrived, his dress robes frayed at the hems and so old the black has faded to a dusky gray. Sirius gives him a short glower as he steps behind Wynne's chair, holding it out for her.

 

“Manners?” Wynne asks, glancing over her shoulder teasingly at Sirius as she takes the offered seat. “Have you been Confounded?”

 

“You're just so funny that it hurts. Ha, ha, _ha_.” Rolling his eyes, Sirius slides Wynne's chair forward, and – just for the sake of posterity – kicks the underside hard enough to make her jump and squeak. Sirius takes his own to her left once Wynne is settle, though admittedly giving him a glower. At her right is an older wizard that Sirius knows, though he can't quite recall his name. Walter something or other, or maybe Wendell...

 

A little first year Ravenclaw, looking so nervous that Sirius fears she'll faint if someone actually speaks to her, flushes violently and knocks her glass of water over when she realizes Sirius will be sitting across from her. She squeaks like a mouse when he winks at her, while Wynne snorts and rolls her eyes good naturedly.

 

The 'party' is so boring Sirius's teeth hurt from it. Wynne seems to enjoy it, though; she remains an active part of the conversation all through their meal, laughing often and pulling Christmas crackers with anyone willing to do so. A quartet plays in one corner, and under the table Wynne's left foot keeps time with them.

 

After the meal, Slughorn Vanishes the table and chairs, leaving a large space open.

 

“If anyone cares to take advantage of our wonderful music – provided by the Sorcerer’s Quartet, of course; I taught this gifted wizard here during his own time at Hogwarts, so kind of you to agree to play tonight, Bayton –” the cellist laughs off Slughorn's praise, smilingly widely at his old professor as he does so. “There is space enough for dancing, I think.”

 

Wynne has already sunk into an armchair away from the space cleared for dancing, but she tugs on Sirius's sleeve until he provides her his full attention.

 

“Ask Lucy to dance with you,” she orders, eyes twinkling. Sirius gives her a blank look, head tipping to one side.

 

“And Lucy is...?”

 

“Lucy Crawford, the Ravenclaw. She fancies you. Go on, Sirius, you'll make her whole Christmas.”

 

“But she's a midget,” he grumbles, digging a finger under his ridiculous cravat to scratch at his neck. As far as Sirius is concerned, dress robes are a form of torture that should be outlawed. “And when I asked her to pass the salt, I thought she was going to have a stroke.”

 

“She's a little girl that has her heart set on a handsome older boy,” Wynne rebukes Sirius softly. “Besides, it's probably her first Christmas away from her family, and the first time she's been allowed out past curfew. It's all very exciting for her, and just _look_ , she's dying to dance. She's just too shy to ask anyone.”

 

“I stayed here so I could avoid parties like this,” Sirius mutters. He crosses the empty space, though, and bows just as he was taught. He offers his hand and the nicest smile he can muster, which grows and strengthens as the little girl trembles and gapes him. Her brown eyes are huge, full of shock and joy and disbelief as he asks, “May I have this dance?”

 

“ _Me_?” she squeaks, blinking rapidly. “I – well, yes. Yes, thank you.”

 

“Do you know how to dance?” Sirius thinks to ask when they're on the floor. Little Lucy is all blushes and fumbles as she shakes her head, stammering something that makes little to no sense. It looks as though she might cry. “Oi, it's okay. Just put your feet on mine, and hold on?”

 

“Oh I...I don't want to scuff your shoes, or...or hurt your toes...”

 

“Sweetheart, I'm regularly walloped by bludgers.” Lifting Lucy around the waist, Sirius settles her feet to the top of his shoes, while she squeaks and shakes. She's light as a feather, the top of her head not even reaching even Sirius's shoulder; but she beams as though he's handed her the moon, and Sirius basks in her open admiration. “A little thing like you won't hurt me.”

 

Sirius dances well, even with a partner that stands on his toes, Lucy laughing so hard that tears sparkle in her eyes when he twirls them. He supposes all those years with the dance instructor and his parents' social events are being put to good use now, as he feels quite like some dashing hero ripped from the pages of one of Wynne's novels. Speaking of Wynne, he spots her during ever other turn; the little pouch, fashionable to carry about a woman's wrist (Sirius suspects his own mother has an entire closet of such satchels, in all different shades, some beaded or embroidered, while others are plain and near unnoticeable), has been opened. Thanks to the charms woven into the fabric, Wynne was able to squeeze her camera into the pouch, though it barely looks large enough to carry a set of ladies gloves. She is snapping picture after picture, beaming as though Sirius has made her entire Christmas by dancing with little Lucy.

 

At the end, Sirius settles the first year back on her own feet before bending over her hand and brushing a kiss to her knuckles. Lucy sputters and seems near to swallowing her own tongue, her face so red that Sirius can practically feel the heat radiating off of it. She scurries away, giggles trailing behind her as Sirius attempts to leave the dance floor.

 

He ends up being passed from one witch to another; some he knows as those who are in, or are on the edge of, his parents' social circle, while others are complete strangers. The youngest is perhaps not quite thirty, but light on her feet and excellent at the foxtrot.

 

Wynne, who Sirius sees often, strays away from the dance floor after taking three turns with a wizard who boasts a mustache so great and curled that it appears near antler like; she ends up on a settee with Professor Flitwick, lost in some cheerful discussion with their professor.

 

Snape lurks on the edges, scowling so fiercely when anyone dares to suggest he partner them that the offers quickly dwindle, before quietly dying.

 

“Excuse me, Professor.” Sirius makes a beeline for Wynne as soon as he breaks free from Madam Eastly (a stately sorceress that swears Sirius is the very image of her long deceased husband, and who Sirius is sure tripped over the hem of her dress robes on purpose, strictly as an excuse to grope his bum), placing one hand Wynne's shoulder. Flitwick and Wynne both look up, their shared words forgotten. “Would you mind if I stole Wynne for a turn?”

 

“By all means.” Professor Flitwick raises his glass of punch, beaming widely.

 

“What gives you the idea I want to dance with you?” Despite her words, Wynne takes his hand when it's proffered, following him to the make-shift dance floor.

 

“You have to,” says Sirius grimly, pinch her arm hard enough to make her jump. “If you hadn't made me dance with the poor, lonely looking first year, those vultures wouldn't be picking at my corpse, so to speak. My feet may fall off.”

 

“Hush your whining; Madam Pomfrey will be able to stick them back on.”

 

Together they fall into the steps of a waltz, and Sirius watches as Wynne's expression melts into something soft, and perhaps a bit sad.

 

“This is the first real dance I learned,” she admits during the promenade. “My step-father loved to dance. I remember getting out of bed late at night, and peering over the banister into the foyer, and there was mum and dad, waltzing with no music. Mum was so happy she glowed like a candle. I haven't seen her so happy since.”

 

“What happened? Your poor dad's feet fall off like mine are going to?”

 

“No,” Wynne appears suddenly fragile, and she directs her gaze to Sirius's much hated cravat. “Bernie died when I was eleven.”

 

Sirius clears his throat, feeling rather like an arse.

 

“I'm sorry,” he offers after a moment, guiding them around a lumbering warlock that seems to be doing nothing more than whirling his poor partner in dizzying circles. “I didn't know. You've never mentioned him before.” Shortly after he speaks, Sirius realizes how little he actually knows of Wynne's family. She talks mostly of an aunt and uncle and their two children, less about her grandparents; mentions of her mother come only when letters or packages are sent, but even then Wynne says little.

 

“I still miss him,” answers Wynne, still avoiding Sirius's gaze. “I don't have a habit of prodding open wounds to see if I can make them bleed just a bit more.”

 

“What about your father? Your, er, actual father, I mean.” Step-father she'd said earlier; Sirius knows of divorces and remarriages, though in the Wizarding World they are few and far between. Perhaps more common for those outside of the social class he was raised in, but still not common.

 

“I don't know.” For the first time, Wynne stumbles; if Sirius had not spent many hours with Madam Whitney (he and Regulus's dancing instructor when they were boys; Sirius still loathes the woman and her bleeding cane), he would not have been able to keep step and pull through her mistake. “I'm not...well acquainted with him.”

 

Perhaps it's nothing more than chance that the waltz ends here, with Wynne gone stiff as a poker, her gauzy skirts still breezing around Sirius's legs, as though pining for another dance. Wynne disentangles herself quickly from Sirius, saying as she goes, “I'm tired; I'm going back to the Tower. Goodnight, Sirius.”

 

“Riley – oi, Riley, wait!” Sirius hurries after her rigid back and drifting skirts, feeling very much as though he has done something terrible. How was he supposed to know asking about her family would upset her so much? It isn't his fault – she brought her step-father up, after all, it wasn't as though he began demanding to know her family tree mid-waltz.

 

Slughorn catches Wynne before she can leave the room he has appropriated for his party. His hat is crooked and his cheeks are flushed, and his glass seems to boast Firewhiskey instead of punch.

 

“Off so soon, Miss Riley?” Slughorn questions jovially. “What a shame, Professor Flitwick has been bragging on you, my dear; it seems that you have quite impressed our chorus master with your voice. I was hoping you might like to grace us with a song before the evening ends. You see, Godric Burbank there is with the Wizarding Wireless Network, and I am sure that if you ever bit as impressive as Filius claims, that Godric would be able to help a great deal when you leave Hogwarts. If you choose to pursue a career in the arts, though I would hate to see your talent with potions set aside, my dear, you truly –”

 

“Wynne's not feeling well,” Sirius breaks into Slughorn's rambling, wrapping a hand around Wynne's arm in what he hope appears to be a comforting manner, and not a grip meant to keep her from dashing away again. “And we're both exhausted from all the dancing.”

 

“Oh yes, yes; perhaps another evening then, hmm?” Sloshing Firewhiskey from his glass, Slughorn waves them on. “Straight to your beds, the both of you, and _behave_ yourselves. Mister Filch is out and about, so no straggling under any more mistletoe!” Laughing as though he has told the most fantastic joke in history, Slughorn wobbles away, zeroing in on a third year Hufflepuff who hastily knocks back the contents of his cup.

 

“I can find my way back to Gryffindor Tower without your help, you know.” Shaking herself free of his grasp, Wynne hurries her pace. Her heels click quickly on the stones, and Sirius has to lengthen his stride to keep up with her.

 

“Are you angry with me?” Sirius demands. Wynne shakes her head but says nothing, determinedly not looking at him. Frustration wells in Sirius's chest and he takes her by the elbow once more, pulling her to a quick halt. Wynne puts a hand over her eyes as he forcibly swings her about to face him, though not before Sirius catches sight of the tears.

 

There should be a law against girls crying, he decides, frozen as he attempts to puzzle out what to do.

 

“I'm sorry,” says Wynne in a choked, breathless fashion. Her other hand goes her face as well, wiping away tears that are trickling down her cheeks. “Really, Sirius, I'm tired. Let's just go back to the Tower now.”

 

“We have a new rule,” Sirius announces suddenly, watching as Wynne drops her hands and – _finally_ – looks up at him. Her brow furrows at his words, and she shakes her head.

 

“I – what? What rules? I didn't even know we _had_ rules.”

 

“Of course we have rules. Such as...never wake Peter up if he's sleep walking.”

 

“He bit me once,” Wynne recalls, and Sirius is glad to see this sudden change in conversation has begun to slow her tears. “I found him the common room in nothing but his pants, sitting a table shuffling Exploding Snap cards. I didn't realize he was asleep until I heard him snoring, and when I shook him awake – snap! He bit my hand.”

 

“See? That's a rule. Another is always leave the last chocolate bar for Remus, or he pouts for days and refuses to share his notes with you.” Nodding sagely as he speaks, Sirius watches Wynne gives a short laugh.

 

“Never let James follow through on any plan that begins with, 'I know how to make Evans go on a date with me,'” she adds, leaving Sirius to give a great bark of laughter.

 

“Never allow Merriweather within groping distance of Slaughter. Poor lad probably has bruises on his bum from her.”

 

“Oh, don't let him fool you, he loves that; amend that rule to 'never allow Merriweather within groping distance of Van when _professors_ are around.' She spent a month of Fridays with McGonagall after she saw Merri grab a handful of Van. He was in his Quidditch uniform, so I think McGonagall should have been more lenient. The uniforms are dead foxy.”

 

“Dead foxy?” repeats Sirius with something close to glee, eyebrows waggling. “Do I make you all atwitter when I wear mine? Do you dream about it?”

 

“Every night.” Rolling her eyes extravagantly, Wynne balls up her fist to lightly punch Sirius in the stomach. “Now behave yourself, or I'll tell your girlfriend about all the lewd things you say to me.”

 

“Never tell on a mate to said mate's girlfriend,” says Sirius with the tone of a priest reading scripture, chin held high and eyes condemning Wynne for her threat. “Or, in your case, a boyfriend.”

 

“A fair rule,” Wynne admits with a faint smile and a shrug. “Not particularly needed since my threats are empty, now; the Other Mary isn't talking to me.”

 

“She might if you stop calling her 'the Other Mary.' It is a bit rude.”

 

“Oh, you're one to lecture on rudeness. And it's better than, 'oi, you; the one shagging my mate!'” There is a fair bit of sniggering on both their parts at this comment, causing the tension in Sirius's neck and shoulders to release. This is more like it; laughter and no tears, Wynne grinning at him so widely that her dimples have deepened into caverns, with her curls beginning to tumble out of their pins.

 

“And now to the new rule; there will be no tears. If crying does happen to occur, instead of running off in a bloody huff, you'll at least tell me what's wrong. You're my friend, Wynne.” Taking her by the shoulders, Sirius leans and kisses her temple. Her hair and skin smells of something musky and cloying; this perfume is different from her usual scent, thicker than the sweet floral Sirius is more accustomed to catching when they are near each other. “At least let me _try_ and help you. All right?”

 

“All right.” Eyes gone all watery again, Wynne wraps her arms tight around Sirius's waist, hugging him as if he is the only thing keeping her from tumbling off some dark cliff into a stormy sea. She buries her head in his neck (her heels give her enough height that she isn't bumping her forehead into his collarbone, which is more common), locking her hands together at the small of his back. Sirius returns the embrace with a flood of tenderness, brushing fallen curls from the side of Wynne face with soft fingers.

 

His friendship with Wynne leaves him off-kilter when he least expects it, and in situations he would never dream of ending up in. He's certainly never seen James fly off in tears, or ended a fight with an embrace so tight it may leave bruises. Sirius supposes that's just the difference between blokes and birds, though; strange as her ways may be to Sirius (who has always supposed the best way to end an argument with his mates is a bit of fight that leaves him with bruised knuckles, an aching jaw, and the solid sense that everything has been worked out), he finds himself navigating the sometimes treacherous waters of Wynne's emotions with more and more ease.

 

He thinks that it mostly comes down to accepting he won't always understand _why_ she's angry, or hurt, or scared; he need only know that she _is_. From there it is a simple formula; console, distract, bring Wynne to laughter, end the conflict with a hug and hair ruffle, and then move on to something more interesting.

 

And speaking of more interesting, Sirius is positive he hears the cranking and clattering of plate mail armor. He looks down the corridor, past the doorway where Slughorn's party is no doubt dying down, to catch sight of Snivellus's worn robes as he makes his way further into the cold dungeons, where the Slytherin common room lies.

 

Wynne's head pops up as she releases Sirius, untangling herself from him so quickly that one might think she has been burnt. Her cheeks are flushed, and there's a rather startled look in her eyes, like an animal realizing it has been caught in a tight corner.

 

“What's that noise?” She asks, moments before an empty suit of armor emerges from the room Slughorn found them in earlier.

 

Sirius's grin is so sharp it's a wonder he doesn't cut himself on it.

 

“Still got your camera in your purse? Give it to me.” Demand made, Sirius holds out one hand expectantly. Wynne pulls the camera from her magically enlarged pouch, which is still strung lightly around her left wrist, dropping the device into Sirius's waiting palm.

 

His thumb is quick on the dial to advance the film before he lifts the camera. The flash is small; dimmed, no doubt, by the light spilling out of the guest filled room between Sirius and the unsuspecting Snape. He hopes he has clearly captured a picture that is, as the saying goes, worth a thousand words; this one being Severus Snape's face as he turns and realizes that four armed suits of armor are advancing on him with halberds and axes drawn.

 

“Run, Snivellus,” the armor choruses is tinny, echoing voices, “The ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future have judged and found you lacking, you miserly, slimy git. Run, Snivellus, _run_!”

 

“Happy Christmas to me,” sighs Sirius in obvious delight, getting off a few more snaps before Snivellus disappears around a corner, skinny legs pumping as his armed assailants bang and clank their way after him.

 

“Every time I think you're having an emotional breakthrough into maturity, you go and prove me wrong,” says Wynne, though she doesn't appear the least bit disappointed.

 

A shout follows Wynne's words, and down the left handed turn of the corridor – the way Snape and his pursuers have gone – there comes a _bang_ , a flash of light, and pieces of armor flying noisily into view. They crash against the walls and floor, making Wynne jump.

 

“We're leaving,” Wynne orders, grabbing Sirius's arm. She pulls him quickly in the opposite direction, breaking into a quick trot, as the guests (among them Professors Slughorn and Flitwick) have no doubt heard the commotion. They will be peering out to investigate any moment now. “Hurry, hurry, hurry...I don't want to explain to my Aunt Byrony how I managed to get a detention over the bloody holiday.”

 

Once they're far enough away that they shouldn't be caught (and if they are, well, Sirius is sure they can talk their way out of it; or at least, he will be clever and Wynne may cry, which tends to work incredibly well with Professor Slughorn; her tears seem to cause weakness in more than just Sirius), he breaks into laughter.

 

It seems to Sirius that Wynne tries to remain disapproving, narrowing her mouth and strengthening the set of her shoulders and back into a stern figure; but too soon a snort escapes her once tight mouth, and by the time they reach the fifth floor landing (by way of a somewhat hidden passage, hoping to avoid Filch and the dreadful Mrs. Norris), she is chortling as easily as Sirius.

 

“That was horrid,” she reprimands with a smile, bumping against Sirius companionably as they mount yet another upward climbing staircase. “I know you don't care for Snape – you know I don't, either – but is it really necessary to torment him like you do?”

 

“Torment?” repeats Sirius in the way he might if he were being accused of some crime he had never even thought of committing. “I don't torment the little weasel, he brings it all on himself.”

 

“He didn't speak to either of us this evening,” Wynne is quick to point out, though her voice has gone soft, as though she hopes to gentle her words by the manner in which she speaks. “And he only scowled at us as much as he did everyone else.”

 

“He was asking for it,” Sirius says in firm response, letting out a great sigh of annoyance. Why is it so hard for Wynne to understand? James, and Remus, and Peter, and even Mary; those four understand easily. It isn't just Snape's character that Sirius dislikes so hotly (though there are no redeeming qualities there to be found, Sirius is sure), but Snape's entire attitude. He wraps himself in the Dark Arts as though they are the arms of a lover; he believes, fervently, in the Slytherin ideal of blood purity, when Sirius knows for a fact the little creep is only a half-blood.

 

He is everything Sirius reviles his own family for. More than that, he is everything his family _wishes_ he was; an idealizer of this new Dark Lord, a hater of muggles and muggleborns alike, steeping himself in practices and magic that would make even a strong man's stomach roll with horror at the thought of them.

 

When they reach Gryffindor Tower, the Fat Lady is near unconsciousness, while her friend Violet is sprawled four portraits over in a pastoral scene, being sick amid shrubbery while oil and brushstroke sheep watch under glowing mid-morning light.

 

“Father Christmas.” In response to Wynne's speaking of the password, the Fat Lady belches, one pudgy hand clamping over her mouth while an empty wine bottle falls from her hand and topples out of sight. The portrait swings open, and Sirius and Wynne clamber inside.

 

“Happy Christmas, Sirius,” Wynne says once they're inside the common room, fingers already busy pulling hair pins and scarlet ribbons from her hair. Her smile is wan, and her eyes seem tired. “I'll be up in the morning sometime to check on the Draught. It's almost ready for the phoenix tears, now; shouldn't be more than a week. Ugh, I'm really exhausted...goodnight.”

 

“Happy Christmas, Riley,” answers Sirius, head tilted up as he fights his cravat for the freedom to breathe. “Don't let the doxies bite.”

 

“If you've put doxies in my bed again, I'll hex you inside out.” Hair falling down her back in half-wound coils and frizzed tangles, Wynne threatens Sirius without breaking stride on her way to the girls' staircase.

 

“It's a figure of speech, you madwoman,” Sirius grouses, heading towards his own bed. “Let it go already, I only put doxies in there the once, you shrew.”

 

“I heard that,” Wynne shouts down the staircase.

 

“I meant for you to,” Sirius bellows back, taking the steps two at a time.

 

And so ends the Christmas of '73, which will one day be relegated to memory and pictures tucked into an album; they will fade and grow dim, though the Sirius of the future – a Sirius that is so changed he cannot comprehend this teenage boy he had been during this time – will always carry with him an image of Wynne Riley at fifteen, with ribbons in her hair and beads clinking the bodice of her dress robes. She will laugh, and Sirius will smile, though the jest has been long forgotten. He will label the memory _our first Christmas_ , and hide it somewhere far away, where not even the nightmares clad in shadows and decay will be able to steal it away.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew, I'm not dead and still updating. SHOCK. 
> 
> Thank you to Asille Nellum and Spider Lilly who kindly edited this chapter and made it much, much better. Love and yummy cookies to everyone who has read, reviewed, and otherwise enjoyed!

**1974**

 

The conclusion of the Draught seems to Wynne like the ending to the first half of some great adventure that she is desperate to go on, and yet fearful of what the outcome may be. In the first days of February (which have been dismal, with snow storms interrupted only by icy rain, much like the preceding January), she sits with her back against one cold stone wall of the boy's dormitory, a position in which she has found herself in more often than not in the past months. With trembling hands and a heart that threatens to rocket out of her throat in excitement and nervous fear alike, she works..

 

To the three separate Draughts she adds four ounces of the remaining, unpersonalized beginnings of her work. Each looks different in the end; after adding the diluted phoenix tears, the sickness of the basilisk venom has been eaten away, purifying the potion into a distilled essence of each boy. Peter's became a bright, sunshine yellow, and began to smell more and more strongly of a garden in the spring, of roses and lilacs and soft green grass. James' turned to a deep brown with swirls of gold, thick and heavy and sending up a thin mist that smells of...freedom. Of wind and clouds and the rich earth, moist and heavy and fertile after a nourishing rain.

 

It is Sirius' that Wynne finds most attractive, which makes her uncomfortable in ways she doesn't want to examine, and so she pushes the thoughts away and ignores them as firmly as she ignores anything that doesn't suit her. It is luminous, like moonlight turned liquid, and as hard as Wynne tries put names to the aroma it exudes she simply can't. Sometimes she thinks its the sea, and others it is musk; one day she swore it was dungbombs, and collapsed into a fit of laughter she refused to explain to the bemused boys watching her chortle with her hands over her face.

 

She wonders at the meaning of it. The Draught becomes an essence of the person it is created for; eaten by the venom, it is the worst of that person, but cleared with the tears, it is their very best. She thinks she's been handed a gift, a chance to glimpse the three at the very core of themselves; sins and goodness all wrapped up in one, everything boiled down the most primal, basic parts of a human soul that many ignore or attempt to cover in civility and manners.

 

With this, the proof that she has finished and can do no more to ensure that all will be well as they go about whatever it is they're doing (after months of wondering, Wynne is rather quite certain they're going to attempt to become Animagi, given their lack of available dragons), Wynne leans back. She's already in her pajamas, having spent most of the evening finishing her Ancient Runes homework so she won't have to bother with it over the weekend, choosing to finish the Draught long after curfew.

 

The boys, much as they always do, are plotting something. They're huddled up on James' bed, whispering and laughing and every once in a while Peter shouts, “But what about the _fish_?” or she hears Sirius insisting, “An _invisible_ catapult!” while Remus tries to keep them within the realms of reason.

 

She clears her throat.

 

She clears it louder.

 

Finally she takes off her slippers and hurls them at the boys. One bounces off Peter's head, and he yelps, nearly toppling backwards. Four heads turn, eight eyes stare, and Wynne _preens_.

 

“This is the part where you praise me,” she instructs, “and I wouldn't say no to a bit of kowtowing, now that I think of it.”

 

It takes a moment for her meaning to sink in.

 

“It's...finished?” asks James, his eyes beginning to gleam. Wynne nods in answer, pushing herself up to stand, smugly self-satisfied even in pajamas patterned with cantering horses, a Christmas gift from her Gran.

 

“I knew you could do it! Knew from the beginning – good job, Wynnie!” James bounds from the bed to rush at Wynne, grabbing her in affection headlock. She doesn't fight it, as she has found lax resistance against his fond rough housing is the easiest course to escape, as fighting back only encourages him.

 

“No you didn't.” Peter tosses Wynne's thrown slipper at James, which the other boy catches. “You said the only people you trusted enough to –”

 

“No, I didn't!”

 

“Yes, you did. I clearly recall it.”

 

James releases Wynne to attack Peter. They crash to the floor, tussling so violently that they somehow manage to wedge themselves half under James' bed, where James begins to yelp as Peter begins biting (his favorite escape method).

 

Sirius, true to nature, collapses onto his knees and begins to bow repeatedly. (Once again proving Wynne's theory that Sirius' true calling is on the stage, where he can be as dramatic as he likes.)

 

“Oh, great and wondrous Wynne! Brewer of the Draught! Praise her, praise her!”

 

“Yes, thank you,” she moves to Sirius's trunk, sitting on the lid as though it is a throne. “I'll expect this once a day from here on out, and twice if I'm feeling blue.”

 

“Are we going to take it now?” Peter scrambles out from under James' bed as he speaks, popping upright. His hair resembles a haystack that has just barely survived a storm, and his chubby face is flushed from the brief scuffle.

 

“Of _course_ we're going to take it now, why would we wait?” James is flushed with excitement, eyes glittering brightly as he grins.

 

“Tomorrow morning,” Remus informs them sternly, “after breakfast.”

 

“ _Tomorrow_? We've already waited _ages_ , why can't we –”

 

“Because we don't know how you three will react to the Draught, and Wynne and I will need a full night's sleep and a good breakfast to keep you all contained in here. Can't have you all running around sniffing up girls skirts and pissing on tress, now can we?” Closing is book with sharp snap, Remus nods firmly.

 

“I don't know how anyone would be able to tell the difference if that's what they're going to do,” Wynne mutters with a grin, before fully processing the rest of Remus' words. “Er, wait, what do you mean, 'Wynne and I?' I thought my part was done.”

 

“Ah, yes. Wynne, would you care to help me keep them from being discovered? I've read several accounts, and apparently the Draught makes the taker, um, well, rather unpredictable. Uninhibited. I would like an extra pair of hands.”

 

“The things I do for you boys...” There goes sleeping in until lunch and spending the day in her dressing gown. “Yes, fine. But I'm copying Sirius' Arithmancy work.”

 

“Deal.” Remus crosses the room and shakes Wynne hand, even throwing in a wink for good measure.

 

“She always copies my Arithmancy,” Sirius points out, earning himself a filthy look from Wynne.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

James and Sirius arrive to breakfast the next morning with ruddy cheeks, freezing appendages (James clamps one frigid hand across the back of her neck, making Wynne shriek and slosh hot coffee on the table, while he chortles in delight), and exuberance for their upcoming adventure. Mary kisses Sirius, which turns into a snog, which leads to Gryffindor loosing ten points and McGonagall ordering them to keep an arm's length between them.

 

“Pathetic,” says Lily on a sigh, while Wynne passes her a butter dish and simultaneously glowers at Mary.

 

“What's pathetic?” Wynne asks, briefly abandoning her disgust.

 

“You.” Stirring butter and sugar into her oats before pouring in milk, Merriweather answers for Lily. “It's sad, really.”

 

“What's sad?” Wynne feels very much as though she has missed at least half of this conversation.

 

“If you don't know, we aren't telling.” Betty pipes up.

 

Rolling her eyes, Wynne gives up and proceeds to ignore them, returning to her second cup of coffee and eggs.

 

Of course, when the boys begin to rise from the table – and Peter locks an arm around Wynne's neck in passing, physically dragging her with them – things begin to go rather pear shaped.

 

“What are we doing today?” asks Mary, trailing along behind.

 

“Don't know what _you're_ doing,” answers James with the same disregard he shows anyone who has begun boring him, “but we're going to be working on our potions.”

 

“Wynnie is tutoring us.” Peter beams, rubbing his knuckles harshly against the top of Wynne's head. She squeaks and squeals and wriggles, trying to escape; Remus prods Peter into releasing her, and she scampers to his opposite side, leaning around the painfully thin boy to pull a face at Peter.

 

“Oh. I could help you in potions, Sirius.” Mary looks rather...sad. A bit hopeful. She twists her fingers with Sirius', giving him a smile.

 

“You?” laughs Sirius, shaking his head. “That's the blind leading the blind, isn't it? We'll stick with Riley, Mary. I'll catch up with you later.”

 

Wynne allows the boys to sweep her along, a leaf in strong currents. She doesn't even think to look back at Mary.

 

 

 

\----X----

 

 

The assumption that Wynne made hours ago is still lurking around in the back of her mind, not the current focus of her attention, but easily called up. The assumption is that no matter how uninhibited the boys _may_ become on the second, and especially third, times drinking the Draught, she just doesn't believe that their first dose is going to turn them into primal beasts.

 

Which is why she goes to choir practice, and then stays after to work one-on-one with Professor Flitwick. Remus has more control over the other three than she does, really, and they aren't acting too badly; when she left James was napping, Peter was munching sweets (nervous, eyes and fingers sharp and quick, but nothing too terrible), and Sirius was a bundle of wild energy. But Sirius is always bursting with energy, even when he's sulking and brooding and silent. That's just _Sirius_.

 

So her mind moves to the music, and Wynne is happy to drown in eighth notes and quarters, shoulders relaxed and back straight as she breathes from her diaphragm and tucks her tongue at the bottom of her teeth. She wonders, idly, about Flitwick; professor, champion duelist, choir master, and lover of muggle films. She thinks he's rather fantastic, almost wishes she was a Ravenclaw, but then recalls that she doesn't have the patience to be _that_ clever. (It looks exhausting.)

 

Mid-way through Persephone's second aria in Alvintzi's _The Iron Queen_ (she thinks this is actually the best part of the wizarding world; not Quidditch or potions or all the lovely hats, but the _music_ ; opera has yet to fall out of style, and Wynne has never been so thankful for cultural differences in her life), Flitwick cuts her off.

 

“ _Wynne_ ,” he sighs in frustration, waving his wand at the piano to cease its playing. His face is twisted up, eyes glittering as he thrusts a hand forward, looking like he wants to shake Wynne until her teeth fall out. “Emotion. You must _feel_ the music, the meaning of the lyrics. Persephone is torn between two worlds, both drawn to and repelled to Hades, longing for the safety of her childish springtime and desperate to embrace the womanhood of a true summer! _Passion_ , Miss Riley, you must find passion. Technicality has its place, but it's no better than a muggle music box, gears and pins and – and other muggle things. A lid!”

 

Wynne wants, very badly, to throw something. She isn't used to be corrected when it comes her singing; she's a talented vocalist. _Gifted_. This isn't like potions or Charms or Transfiguration, something she has to work at; the music is there, and she can pull it up, and it's just...just _right_.

 

“How am I supposed to feel all that?” she demands, hands balling at sides. “I don't – I don't _know_ what Persephone would be feeling.”

 

“Imagination, Miss Riley, fills the gaps where knowledge and experience have yet to tread. I want you to read over the libretto, and think about it. Imagine what Persephone is feeling in each scene. When she is sad, think of what makes you sad; when she scared, imagine the most horrifying nightmare you have ever had. Do this every night before you sleep, and when you come back next week, we'll try again.”

 

“Yes, Professor.” Wynne packs up, and trudges back to Gryffindor Tower. She wants to cry, and it makes her angry; she's fifteen, not very far away from being an adult at all, she shouldn't be so thin skinned as to let _Flitwick_ upset her to the point of tears. It's like crying over a sunny day – there's no point in it.

 

Still, the fact remains that any slight against her vocal talents (or suggestion that she still has room to improve), makes Wynne as prickly as an angry porcupine. Emotion won't let her hit high Bb over C; no, that's talent and practice and dedication. Emotion has _nothing_ to with it, so what does it matter at all?

 

She's in a sour mood as she enters the Common Room, bag slung over her shoulder a scowl curling mouth in a most ugly way. Mary and Ursula are lurking near the boy's staircase, magazines spread over a small table they've drawn close.

 

“I thought you were helping the boys with potions?” asks Mary as Wynne marches determinedly towards the staircase.

 

“I had choir practice. I'm getting back to them, though.”

 

“You know, I can always help you. One tutor for four students, it seems a bit much.”

 

Wynne decides quickly that Mary does not fully understand the concept of subtlety.

 

She pauses with one foot on the first step up, bushing hair out of her face with an exasperated sigh before she speaks. “I know you want to go up there with us to make sure I'm not snogging Sirius into some sort of sexual coma or something, but let me assure you _now_ ; out of everything we may or may not be lying about, out of all the things Sirius has _not_ told you, 'potions tutoring' is not secret code for 'Sirius and Wynne shagging.'”

 

Face turning red, Mary's eyes take on a hard, angry glitter.

 

“You think you're so clever, don't you?” There is a surprising amount of bitterness in Mary's tone, and it baffles Wynne. _Why_ does she dislike her so much, now? Because she's friends with Sirius? What, since Mary is his girlfriend, she doesn't want him to have any other friends? “You're not, you know. Not even close.”

 

Wynne doesn't bother with a reply, simply stomps upstairs, and into the fifth year boy's dorm.

 

She stops, stunned, with the door still swinging shut behind her. The first thing she see's is Peter's head and upper body sticking out from under his bed, frozen in the process of pulling his sheets off the mattress. He squeals at her – the sound painfully shrill – before darting into the darkness, muttering so that Wynne can _hear_ his voice, without actually understanding what he is saying.

 

James is still in his bed, surrounded by books, clothes, what seems to be rubbish, and various other bits and bobs.

 

“This is mine,” he tells Wynne firmly, gesturing expansively. “Just mine.”

 

“Um,” says Wynne slowly, “okay then?”

 

Sirius bangs out of the bathroom, wrapped in a sheet, hair badly ruffled and eyes bright. “Wynne!” he shouts, lunging towards her. “I missed you! I missed you! Where were you? Why did you leave? I'm happy you're back! Don't leave again, okay? I don't like it when you're gone!”

 

“Why are you shouting?” she whimpers, backing up until she bangs against the door. Sirius continues advancing, tossing his arms open to grab Wynne in a tight hug....which is how Wynne discovers he isn't wearing anything under aforementioned sheet. “Where are your _pants_?”

 

“Sirius! Get off Wynne!” Remus charges out of the loo after Sirius. Wynne can't see him (Sirius is determinedly pressing her face into his chest), but he sounds like he's on his last nerve.

 

“ _No_.” Sirius sounds wounded, like Remus has hurt him. He spins around, still clutching Wynne like a child with its favorite toy, while Wynne stumbles and flails and fights for escape. (It is, she finds, useless.) “This is my Riley.”

 

“We don't own people,” explains Remus tightly, “now let her go.”

 

“But she's my _Riley_.” Bafflement colors Sirius's voice, though he loosens his grasp enough to allow Wynne to pull back and gape up at him. He beams happily. “Want to play a game? Exploding Snap! Chess! Or we can cuddle! Or you can brush my hair!” Sirius _wriggles_ , like an excited puppy.

 

Wynne blinks, and slowly turns her head to give a wide-eyed look. “I suppose I should have skipped choir practice, shouldn't have I?”

 

“Oh yes,” Remus agrees tightly. “Sirius kept trying to get James to play a game with him, and James kept headbutting him for being on 'his' bed, in 'his' area. Peter's been under the bed, mostly, though he did check out the wardrobe for a while. Seems to be keen on dark places right now, though for a while he kept trying to get out of the room.

 

“My hair,” Sirius breaks insistently, “you really should brush it.” He drags Wynne towards his bed, sheet trailing behind him until it falls away entirely.

 

“On one condition; you have to put on pants _and_ trousers.”

 

“Why?” Appearing honestly baffled, Sirius looks down at his naked body, rocks back on his heels, before planting a pleading look on Wynne. “I like being like this.”

 

“Because it's the only way I'm brushing your hair, _that's_ why.”

 

Sirius's shoulders fall, but he releases her to slink off to his wardrobe, obviously crestfallen.

 

“Why don't you go get some fresh air?” Wynne asks Remus, patting his arm. “You look a bit...out of sorts.”

 

Remus doesn't even bother with an answer, he simply escapes.

 

Peter continues chittering to himself under his bed, the majority of his sheets down under it with him.

 

Sirius bounds to Wynne, wearing a pair of soft looking pajama pants that are too short for him now, before flopping onto his bed with an air obvious expectancy.

 

“My bed,” James reminds Wynne, as though she might have forgotten. “Just mine.”

 

“Of course it is,” Wynne agrees, “and I promise not to come near it unless you want me to.”

 

“Oh.” Blinking rapidly behind his glasses, James appears startled. “Good. You don't want my bed? Or my stuff?”

 

“Nope,” promises Wynne, while taking up Sirius' hair brush. “Though it's all very nice, I have things and a bed of my own.”

 

“My hair,” Sirius whines, rolling onto his stomach and sprawling in a decidedly sullen way.

 

Wynne sighs, wonders at how wrong she managed to be about her beliefs on the affects of the Draught while crawling onto the bed to sit beside him. She begins to brush out Sirius' hair, rolling her eyes as he burrows his face into her lap and sighs happily, going limp.

 

“That's nice,” he sighs, “bit to the left.”

 

“You're _sure_ you don't want my things?” James asks suspiciously from across the room.

 

Peter giggles, head poking out from under the bed for only a moment before he disappears again.

 

Wynne decides she really does have the strangest friends, Draught or no.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Everything is all wrong when Wynne wakes up. Her bed is on the opposite side of the room, her pillows are missing, and someone is stealing her blanket. She is vaguely aware this should be alarming, but mostly she's just angry that she's been woken up, which means she starts throwing elbows until she hears a grunt of pain. She cracks her eyes open long enough determine where her escaping blanket is at, yanks it back in place, and then rolls and wriggles until its wrapped entirely around her.

 

Secure and warm in her dark cocoon, not even a single bit of hair or skin peeking out, Wynne immediately begins to drift back off. She's making a good go of it, too, until freezing cold toes find their way into her nest, and jam between her ankles.

 

“It's cold,” Sirius grumbles, tugging irritatedly at the blankets. “Share, or I'm kicking you in the floor.”

 

_What's Sirius doing in my bed?_ Wynne wonders, before recalling the boys in the grip of the Draught, Remus bringing up dinner, and falling asleep sometime around midnight, when the Draught seemed to be wearing off.

 

Ah. No wonder things are so odd – she's in _Sirius'_ bed.

 

Grumbling wordlessly, Wynne wriggles until she can raise one side of the blanket open, jumping as Sirius lunges under it with her. He tucks and turns, while Wynne hisses at the faint, gray light that comes before a the true dawn, rolling away.

 

Even with Sirius' cold nose jammed against the back of her neck, and his toes still warming themselves against her own poor ankles, Wynne quickly falls back asleep.

 

The second time Wynne wakes, the curtains are drawn around the bed, and Sirius is wrapped around her, snoring softly. There are raised voices outside his bed, and quite frankly, You-Know-Who could be banging up the steps, and she's fairly sure it wouldn't matter. She's warm, comfortable, and relaxed; moving just isn't going to happen.

 

“Er, Wynne,” says James loudly, “might think about running, now.”

 

“Go away!” Wynne snarls, curling her knees to her chest and refusing to open her eyes. Beside her Sirius grunts and grumbles, wrangling his arm free from her grasp to sit up.

 

“Is this some kind of _joke_?” The voice is shrill, angry, close to tears, and obviously feminine. It takes Wynne a moment to place it, but when she does, her eyes pop open.

 

Merlin's wand, Mary has found her in Sirius' bed, _with_ Sirius, and is not going to understand how it isn't what appears to be.

 

“ _Mary_?” Sirius vaults out of the bed, panic in his voice “Oh – oh shit, no, this isn't what it looks like!”

 

“It isn't?” Mary asks, and it sounds like she's already crying. “Because it looks like you and Wynne in – in _bed_ together, so I don't know how it could be _anything_ else!”

 

“It's really not!” Wynne pops up like a jack-in-the-box, balancing on her knees as she shoves her snarled hair out of her face. It's not so much that she _cares_ about Mary, at least not since she began placing herself between Sirius and Wynne; it is more that Wynne is terrified what the other girls reaction may do to Wynne and Sirius' relationship. “I was here late, and I fell asleep, and it just happened to be in Sirius' bed. I swear to God, we didn't – we weren't – it wasn't like that.”

 

“ _Don't_ , Wynne. Just – just don't. I'm done. I'm done with _both_ of you.” Mary takes off, sobs echoing behind her. Sirius just _stands_ there, hands at his sides, jaw tight and eyes trained on his toes.

 

Wynne sinks back, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

 

It's too damn early for this.

 

“Sirius,” she half whispers, “I'm sorry...about all of this.”

 

He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck as he heads to the bathroom. “Are you really?” he questions bitingly.

 

The bathroom door slams shut behind him, making Wynne wince as tears well up in her eyes. Sirius is absolutely upset with her...no, this was _not_ what she wanted.

 

“That was a bit brutal.” Sitting on his trunk with a sock hanging half off his foot, Peter grimaces.

 

They really need to have a talk with him about pointing out the painfully obvious.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone who is reading! And those kind enough to leave a review, I just want to kiss your face! (That is not as creepily violent as it sounds.) (I swear I'm not a deranged stalker.) (...Or am I?) A billion billion thank you's go to Asille Nellum and Spider Lilly for betaing this beast. They really are the best!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Merriweather Grayjoy is, as a general rule, bored. Despite being taught magic, which should be an exciting and interesting study in all different branches, but work and rigidly scheduled classes are the same even if one is learning how to become a proper witch. Besides all that, she can't _really_ see the point of learning how to brew a potion to give one the properties of a chameleon, or learn the tickling charm, not when there's war brewing outside the safe walls of Hogwarts.

 

She clips articles from the _Daily Prophet_ and the _International Cauldron_ , pins them around her bed and to her canopy. Doesn't anyone care that in Bristol seven muggles were slaughtered in their home? That there have been riots against muggleborns in France, or the murder of a squib activist in America? That everywhere Merriweather turns her eyes, there are warnings and signs of something much larger and darker about to explode?

 

“You're morbid,” says Ursula, shuddering at a few of the clippings. “Why would you want to see this stuff all the time?”

 

“Because it matters,” Merriweather answers, baffled that her friend doesn't understand. “Dad says we've bunged this all up, now. That You-Know-Who is after a real war, like what Grindelwald brought about. Maybe even worse. We need to be ready.”

 

Ursula nods slowly, but quickly changes the subject to school gossip (Regulus Black hexed poor Cerys Jones so badly she's locked up in the Hospital Wing, shedding her skin all over the place). Merriweather listens with half an ear before she notices an unusually quiet and grim looking Wynne slipping out of their dorm room.

 

“Sorry,” she tosses over her shoulder at Ursula, “I need to check on Wynne.”

 

“She's fighting with Sirius!” Ursula calls after her. “I heard it from Betty who heard it from Mary – oh, they've broken up, by the way.”

 

“Let's walk,” Merriweather suggests when she catches up with Wynne, before grabbing her arm and giving her no choice but to follow. She takes them out of the common room and down winding halls, until they find a drafty and abandoned class room where they can talk in private.

 

“I heard from Ursula who heard from Betty who heard from the Other Mary –” Merriweather hates herself for saying that, “that Mary and Sirius are broken up, and you and Sirius are fighting. Have something to do with why you haven't burst into song once today?”

 

“Ugh, it's all so stupid. _I'm_ so stupid.” Wynne collapses onto an abandoned desk chair, dust whirling up as the legs creak menacingly. “I fell asleep in the boys' room last night, in Sirius' bed. Other Mary came up when he didn't go down for breakfast, and found us sleeping, and _completely_ misread the situation. She broke up with him, Sirius is angry with me, and I don't know what to do. Maybe I should try to explain to her? Maybe then Sirius will acknowledge my presence again...but where does he get off, acting like such a berk? _He_ knows what really happened. It's not _my_ fault his girlfriend is deranged enough to think we spent the entire night shagging.”

 

A few deep breathes need to be taken before Merriweather feels even slightly ready to tackle the issue at hand. She believes there is no point putting such effort into a relationship at their ages. It'll last a few weeks, months if all involved have particularly long attention spans, before ending in a blaze of tears and chocolate and dating each other's friends for revenge. Besides, she doesn't – and never has -- understood the Sirius-Wynne-Mary ordeal. Blind men can see Sirius and Wynne fancy each other, and that Mary was bound to get her heart broken from the beginning. A relationship can't work when one party is all but dating another girl.

 

“I think I'm just going to avoid him. Not talk to him. I know we have classes together, but we can get around that. I'm sure.” Wynne begins to ramble, chewing nervously on her fingernails in between words.

 

Merriweather tries to think of a tactful way to have this conversation, she really does. But upon coming up short, she shrugs and simply dives in. “Sweetheart, I love you, but you're stupid.” This, Merriweather feels, is the duty of a best friend.

 

Wynne gapes at her. “I'm sorry... _what_?”

 

“You're stupid. Dumb. Ignorant. Blind. An idiot, a moron, mentally defect; I can keep going with this, if you want, but I'm going to assume you've got the picture.”

 

“What the hell is this, 'kick Wynne while she's down' day?” Swelling angrily, Wynne folds her arms and performs the most dramatic and well executed sulk Merriweather has ever seen.

 

“Friends don't avoid each other. They talk about what happened, and see if the situation can be at least somewhat resolved. You know why? Because friends don't avoid friends. Friendship means taking the good times and bad times and boring, uneventful times all together. We have rows, bicker back and forth for a short while, and then move on with life. That's what you and Sirius need to do.”

 

Shifting uncomfortably, Wynne looks rather like a child caught stealing biscuits before dinner.

 

“But he's angry,” she whines, “I don't like it when he's angry at _me_.”

 

“I don't like that I'm not allowed to have an aging potion so I can skip all this teenage and puberty nonsense, but we all have to play the hand we're dealt. Deal with it. Be a man.”

 

“I'm not a man,” Wynne grumbles sullenly, “so... _there_.”

 

“Meanwhile, Mary may be dumb as a box of rocks for trying to keep Sirius when it's obvious who is first chair and who is second, but she's got reason to be angry at the two of you. Guess what? You are dating Sirius in every way that matters.”

 

“Have you lost your _mind_?” Sputtering on slightly hysterical laughter, Wynne shakes her head violently. “No, sorry, you may be right about friendship and such, but you are _dead wrong_ about this.”

 

“You buy each other gifts –”

 

“ _We_ buy each other gifts, Merri! Invalid point.”

 

“You spend the majority of your time with him, you're jealous that he's seeing another girl, you have inside jokes with him, you have a picture of him in his Quidditch robes beside your bed, and don't think that I don't know why you spend a disturbing amount of time staring at it before going to sleep. Which, by the way, silencing charms on your curtains would benefit us _all_.”

 

Wynne turns Gryffindor scarlet. “I – no – that – I have thing for dark haired men and Quidditch uniforms, that's it! I am not doing what you think I'm doing! But if I were, it's a perfectly natural act, and no matter what Aunt Byrony says, you don't get hairy palms and go blind. And if I were, I wouldn't be thinking about Sirius. It's not your business anyway, so _shut up._ I hate you.”

 

“You spend more time ogling that photo than you do your dirty novels. You fancy Sirius. You fancy Sirius like...like Potter fancies Lily.”

 

Crumpling like paper introduced to fire, Wynne wraps her arms around her stomach. She looks miserable, and Merriweather tries to feel bad, but fails and instead hopes this conversation will lead to a resolution to Wynne's boiling resentment of Mary and nauseating adoration of Sirius. Honestly, all Merriweather wants is one breakfast without Potter _and_ Wynne acting like complete assholes, is that too much to ask?

 

“I don't like this,” Wynne admits, “stop it.”

 

“You stop it,” is the best Merriweather can quickly come up with. “What is so _wrong_ with admitting that you have this...thing...with Sirius? Why are you so far up denial that you're in Egypt?”

 

For a long, tense few minutes Wynne is quiet. She chews her nails, curls her hair around nervous fingers, and hums an angry, discordant melody under her breath. Finally, just when Merriweather is beginning to fear she's broken Wynne for good, she says, “It scares me.”

 

Like lightning coming from a storm cloud, Merriweather suddenly understands. Bernard Molyneux left far more marks on Wynne than she would like to admit, and here are the scars. Wynne loved that piece of rubbish, blindly and wholly, and the devastation of being taken advantage of by such an older man _and_ learning that she was only one of many made Wynne far more wary than most other girls her age.

 

“Sirius isn't Molyneux, Wynne. He's a stupid, arrogant, moronic teenage boy, but he's more of a man than that arse, and his testicles have barely descended. I'm not saying this is true love, or that one day you two will get married and live happily ever after, but sweetie, what kind of life are you going to lead if you let one stupid jackass that took advantage of you keep you from acting on any feelings you have towards any boys you'll fancy in the future? Tell Sirius you want to try dating, and if it doesn't work out, oh well, you can still be friends. You can laugh about it, and make your future spouses desperately uncomfortable by judging them unfairly.”

 

“What if he doesn't like me?” asks Wynne, and Merriweather sighs before crossing the room to hug her friend.

 

“Then you can be a complete bitch to his next girlfriend.”

 

“I can do that,” Wynne agrees, and if she's crying a bit, neither of them have to acknowledge it.

 

“Great. Now, promise me we won't have to be this emotional and touchy-feely for at least two more years, and let's go look at your new _Twilfitt and Tatting's_ catalog _._ Shopping always makes you feel better.”

 

“You're the best, you know that?”

 

“I do, though if you could put it in writing and tell my mum, I'd appreciate it.”

 

They leave the classroom arm-in-arm, Wynne much more cheerful and Merriweather hopeful.

 

\----X----

 

“I was seriously considering avoiding you for at least the next month.” Wynne smoothes the back of her skirt down before she takes her seat, knees tightly together.

 

Sirius shoots her a searching sort of look from the corner of his eyes, wondering at how primly she sits, while he is ruffled and wrinkled and slouching so deeply their heads are nearly level. It's a defense, he figures. Manners create distance – this Sirius knows all too well.

 

He knew she would show up eventually. If he hadn't wanted her to find him, either so they could talk or fight or sit in awkward silence as they attempt to figure out what to say, he wouldn't have come to the little room behind Lady Rich's portrait. He knew it would be the very first place she'd look, after James and the others told her he hadn't come to the common room after dinner.

 

“Merriweather told me I was a being a complete arse, though. She also said that friends don't avoid each other, they talk about whatever is troubling them, and work it out. Even if it takes time. This makes sense, of course, but I thought I'd ask your opinion on the matter. Should I leave and begin actively avoiding you, or would you like to talk about what happened yesterday?”

 

There's a part of Sirius, a part that is mean and bitter and sounds too much like his mother for his own liking, that wants to tell her to avoid him for the rest of forever. Just leave and never come back, because she's ruined everything with Mary, and he isn't ready to forgive her for it. He even opens his mouth to say it.

 

But then there's the James voice. It says, _don't be a berk, Black. It's your fault as much as it hers, and you know it_. So Sirius sighs, falling over to rest his head in Wynne's lap. She stares down at him with wide eyes, obviously shocked, and Sirius is almost ashamed when she blinks back tears.

 

“We are not mature adults,” Sirius insists, “nor are we headed towards becoming mature adults. We're damn foolish teenagers, and we're going to stay that way as long as we can. So don't go getting ideas when I tell you we should probably talk about it.”

 

“Not a single idea, I swear.” Wynne grins at him, and even threads her fingers into his hair. Sirius has to actively resist closing his eyes and doze off.

 

“Unfair battle tactics,” he mutters. “You know that puts me to sleep.”

 

“All's fair in love and war,” Wynne quips, and it's like being doused with cold water. Sirius's snap open, meeting Wynne's shocked, almost _scared_ gaze. “I – I didn't mean –”

 

“I don't love you.” Is it mean to say that? Probably. Still, it needs to be said. “I absolutely do not.”

 

“Fantastic,” Wynne sniffs, becoming rigid. “I never thought you did, anyway.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Great.”

 

Wynne removes her fingers from his hair, folds her hands together and rests them them on Sirius chest. Sirius can't help but scowl. “That doesn't mean you have to stop playing with my hair. Friends can do that.”

 

“Are you sure? I wouldn't want to you think I'm trying to...to seduce you, or something.” Wynne sneers, rolling her eyes.

 

“It wouldn't work, even if you tried. The thought actually disgusts me.” Thankfully, lying comes naturally to members of Sirius' family.

 

“That's the biggest load of tosh I've ever heard in my life. You're a _boy_ , all I'd have to do is show you my breasts.”

 

“I've seen them before, if you recall.”

 

“Yes, you did. And then we shagged.”

 

Sirius opens his mouth, trying hard to think of a comeback. None come to mind so he simply huffs, folding his arms over his stomach while glowering at Wynne's chin. “Well, now they haven't got any fascination for me at all.” He finally manages to come up with, nodding firmly.

 

“Is that so?” asks Wynne, moments before she tugs her jumper up, pulling it swiftly over her head and off her arms.

 

“What are you doing?” Sirius demands, shooting upright. Heat hits him like he's walked into a green house, burning as his eyes drop to Wynne's fingers, which are busily plucking at the buttons of her uniform shirt.

 

“Proving a point,” she says, and her jaw is set in that stubborn line Sirius is _quite_ familiar with. It only takes her a moment to pop all the buttons free, to tug her shirt tails from her waistband and undo her tie, shrugging it all off. She's just wearing a vest now, but it's thin and soft looking, and her hands are already reaching for the hem.

 

“Weird way to show we're just friends,” he spits out, wondering at his ability to talk past his throbbing heart. It feels like it's logged in his throat, choking him.

 

“Didn't I hear you tell Mary today that I'm just 'one of the boys?' Then this shouldn't bother you at all, should it? It'll be like being in the boy's changing room before a Quidditch game.” There's a challenge in Wynne's eyes, and maybe even anger. The only time she breaks her daring stare-down with Sirius is when her vest is over her head, but soon she's dropping that to the floor and twisting her arms behind her back.

 

Sirius can't breathe. Her bra sags and then drops entirely. Wynne simply lets it fall, shaking it past her wrists and hands, knocking it off her knees, where it lays in a crumpled, careless heap. Not that Sirius sees it, no. He is far too busy trying to breathe, to think, to tear his eyes away and show her how unaffected he is.

 

The problem is that he _is_ affected – terribly so. He's had dreams like this, for months now. He thinks about her mouth, her hands, her soft thighs and the way she says his name, no matter how hard he tries to think about Mary. Poor, sweet Mary who understands him, but isn't Wynne, could never be Wynne, and is always being hurt by her.

 

It's too much. It really is.

 

Sirius touches her. It isn’t much, only his fingertips against the curve of one breast, but Wynne’s breath hitches and she shivers so hard Sirius can see the muscles in her stomach tighten. Her mouth goes limp even as her nipples contract, and for a moment the room seems to tilt, before everything comes into bright focus.

 

“Am I?” Wynne asks, but the daring anger that drove her to this act has fled. Instead there’s something fragile in her eyes, something almost _scared_ , and Sirius’ first instinct is to run. He doesn’t want to see her like this, doesn’t want to be in any way to be responsible for the mess this could potentially bring about. “Am I _really_ just one of the boys?”

 

“No,” he answers quietly, not able to bring himself to deny it. “You aren’t.”

 

“Then why did you say that? Why are you so worried about keeping Mary as your girlfriend?”

 

“It’s complicated.” It really isn't, but Sirius doesn’t want to explain his reasons to Wynne (it makes them too real). Mary understands him, is pretty and sweet and laughs at all the right times; Wynne is sarcastic and clever and makes Sirius feel like his skin is three sizes too small. It’s easy to see who the safer choice is, when it comes right down to it: Mary will follow him without causing problems, while Wynne...well, Wynne is Wynne, and won’t see anything wrong with twisting Sirius up and challenging him when she thinks he needs a dressing down.

 

“Liar,” Wynne counters, and Sirius has the brief fear that she’s been teaching herself Legilimency. But then he hasn’t got time to worry, because Wynne isn’t just leaning forward, she’s bracing herself against the back of the sofa and straddling his hips. Sirius’ eyes feel as though they’ve grown double their normal size, it suddenly becomes impossibly to do even entertain the notion of moving, and then Wynne is _kissing_ him.

 

It isn’t even a little bit like the awkwardness of their first time. Neither is it like snogging Mary, who has solid ideas about morality, and what can come before marriage and what can’t (her father might be quite happy with that if he knew, but Sirius tends to be fairly frustrated, though reluctantly understanding).

 

Kissing Wynne, here and now, is like...like the first time Sirius held his wand in Ollivander’s; the sharp, biting current that races though him from head to toe, followed by a deep sense of _rightness_. Her tongue brushes his bottom lip, and Sirius opens, tastes, and is lost. He palms the small of her back and feels as though he’s breaking apart, because it’s just _skin_ , soft and supple. He traces her spine, all the way up to her neck, and loses his breath entirely when Wynne whimpers into his mouth.

 

“You better pull your head out of your arse, Black,” says Wynne as she pulls back. She’s a bit wobbly when she stands, but stand she does, bending over to snag her bra and vest.

 

Sirius gapes at her.

 

“You can’t do that!” A Beater’s reflexes allow him to snag her brassiere before she can stop him.

 

“Can’t do what?” she demands rather archly. Wynne’s blushing, but she folds her arm and sticks her chin out, like she’ll do battle topless if need be.

 

“Take your clothes off, and kiss me, and then just...get dressed and _leave_!”

 

“I can’t?” Wynne steps forward before leaning down a bit, one hand on the arm of the sofa. Sirius finds himself on eye-level with a perfectly lovely set of breasts. While he has _several_ ideas of what he should do with or to them, he’s rather too stunned to act.

 

When Wynne steps back, she’s got her bra again. She positively radiates smugness as she quickly slips it back on.

 

“I can,” she informs him while pulling her vest on, and then reaching for her shirt, “and I am. Merriweather and I had a real eye opening chat, and you know what? She made me realize I was being as much of an arse as you are, pretending I don’t fancy you and all that. But the world won’t end if you don’t want me, you know. So you best figure out what you _actually_ want, Sirius, because I’m not going to wait around forever for you to grow a pair and face the fact we haven’t been ‘just friends’ in a long time.”

 

By this time, Wynne’s shirt is button and tucked in, her necktie is messily knotted at her throat, and she’s jamming her arms into the sleeves of her jumper. On the other hand, Sirius has yet to get his mouth fully shut.

 

She leaves only a few moments after.

 

“Damn,” Sirius swears as the portrait swings shut behind her. He really _hates_ losing.

 

\----X----

 

 

“When you say _topless_ , you mean...” James gestures to his chest, eyebrow waggling violently. “ _Really_ topless? Or, you know, bra on, no shirt?”

 

“Topless,” Sirius confirms, “really, absolutely...completely...” he trails off, clearing his throat roughly. All three of his dorm mates are piled on his bed (there really isn’t enough room, though they somehow manage), looking very much as though their minds have been completely blown. Hell, Sirius hasn’t seen them like this since the Nimbus 825 came out.

 

“Wow,” Peter whispers. “Were they nice?”

 

“I don’t think we should speak like this about Wynne. She’s our friend.” Remus flinches as James slaps the back of his head without even a parting glance.

 

“Shut up, Moony. _Because_ she’s our friend we can talk about it. Other blokes would be all, you know, derogatory or vile about it. We’ll be respectful. So what’d they look like?”

 

“That is not respectful,” sniffs Remus, before sitting a small pile of _Busty & Bewitched_ on the bed in front of him. He flips each one open to a premarked page, directing Sirius’ gaze towards them. “Though for scientific purposes, of course, please choose a type from this selection.”

 

“Rainy Dae Charm’s shape,” Sirius pronounces after a moment, pointing each out. “But Elvira Night’s nips.”

 

“Wow,” Peter giggles, flushing. “ _Nips_. That’s so...so bitchin’!”

 

“I know,” says Sirius with a shrug, like he sees nipples on such a regular basis that it doesn’t really mean much to him anymore. (Internally he’s still in shock.) “It’s whatever, though.”

 

“It’s obvious that you’ve got to ask her out,” James announces firmly. “Take her to Madam Puddifoot’s, birds like that. And maybe when you get back to the castle you’ll get to see her breasts again.” James and Peter high five, sharing a bright leer, like they’re the ones that will be getting under Wynne’s shirt if things go right.

 

The thought makes Sirius’ stomach turn, and not only because it was what he had planned to do with Mary on the upcoming Hogsmeade for Valentine’s Day...no, it has more to do with the mere _thought_ of taking Wynne Riley on a _date_.

 

“It’s a terrible idea,” he scoffs, “we’re friends. We should stay that way.”

 

“What?” James is obviously aghast.

 

“Are you _mad_? What, is Wynne not good enough for you, or something?” demands Peter, looking surprisingly close to angry.

 

“Why _wouldn’t_ you want to go out with her? You’re friends, you get along, and she already took your virginity. Just remember to be a gentleman, because Wynne _is_ a lady, though an admittedly forward one.” Remus nods, as though he’s just mastered a particularly difficult spell in Defense.

 

“If you lot like her so well, why don’t you ask her to Hogsmeade?” Sirius grumbles, feeling rather trapped.

 

“Alas, my heart belongs to Evans,” James declares, waving one hand. “One day she _will_ be mine. True love will overcome!”

 

“She just isn’t my type,” admits Remus with a shrug. “I’d feel...dirty.”

 

“Think she’d say yes if I did?” Peter wonders aloud, squinting blindly towards the canopy of Sirius’ bed. “I mean, since you don’t seem to want her...”

 

“Ask her and you’ll never be able to grow your eyebrows back.” Sirius is nearly as taken aback by his surliness as Peter is.

 

“But you said you aren’t going to.” Peter appears honestly baffled, and it earns him a pat on the back from Remus.

 

“Sirius is just being a spoiled brat,” the werewolf explains sagely. “He doesn’t want to play with his toy, but he doesn’t want anyone else to play with it, either. He’ll learn, eventually, that people aren’t toys, and if Wynne finds out what he’s said, she’s likely to slip a poison in his pumpkin juice.”

 

“Yet another reason why I wouldn’t date her,” admits James with a faint shudder, “she’s rather terrifying.”

 

“Evans is terrifying, as well,” Peter points out, “but you’re mad for her.”

 

“It’s a different type of terrifying, Pete. Evans’ rage hides her unrealized passion for me; Wynne is clever enough to make my life into such a living hell that I’ll kill myself, so she won’t have to break a nail doing it herself.”

 

James’s description is so accurate (in regards to Wynne, at least; Sirius thinks Lily would rather hex herself blind, deaf, and dumb, rather than spend a minute alone with James), that Sirius laughs until his stomach cramps.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Days become weeks, and Wynne doesn’t bring up their conversation – or her actions – in the secret room even once. Mary avoids them all (Sirius and his mates, Wynne and Merriweather) as best she can, though given their living and class arrangements, there are more than a few awkward run-ins.

 

Sirius doesn’t try to convince Mary to go back out with him anymore. He’s finally admitted, at least to himself, that it isn’t fair to use Mary to avoid Wynne. Mary is a great girl all on her own, and she deserves more than Sirius. He is rather... _sad_ that they don’t talk anymore; dating aside, she _understood_ Sirius and his situation with his family. He misses their talks.

 

Valentine’s Day passes with much sneering and eye rolling by Sirius.

 

James sends Lily three different cards, two boxes of chocolates, flowers, and a necklace; she keeps the chocolate, shreds the cards, gives the flowers to a second year that was crying in the hall, and throws the necklace in James’ face while coldly informing him, “You can’t _buy_ me, Potter, so stop trying.”

 

Wynne receives an anonymous Valentine, which she and Merriweather giggle over, picking out boys in the Great Hall as contenders for the sender. Sirius feels rather offended when Wynne doesn’t even think that it might be him and steals it once they get to the common room.

 

“Let me see that,” Sirius demands scathingly, before reading aloud. “ _Each fair familiar feature of thy face shines through the darkness where my soul abides, as on a bridegroom’s love-bright eye the bride’s_ \-- nauseating. What the hell is this?”

 

“Poetry,” Wynne answers mildly, plucking the card from Sirius’s fingers.

 

“You can’t possibly like rubbish like that. What kind of nancy sends poetry?” Sirius laughs, but it’s too sharp and mean.

 

Wynne doesn’t just look _at_ Sirius, she looks all the way through him. Her frown is just a bit disappointed.

 

“At least this boy has the bollocks to do something sweet, and admit his feelings.”

 

“He didn’t even sign his name, how is that having balls?”

 

“Just doing it is brave, I think, signed name or no. Lots of people wouldn’t. They’re too afraid of being rejected or hurt or messing up. I’m sure one day you’ll find someone you think enough of that you’ll do something like this for her.” Wynne’s expression becomes closed off, and she leaves the common room quickly.

 

“Could you be any more of an arse?” Merriweather asks, obviously exasperated. “Honestly, I will never understand boys.” She hurries after her friend, leaving Sirius to pull a face at her back before tossing the card on a nearby table.

 

“Good job,” Remus calls, holding up a thumb. “Nicely done.”

 

Sirius growls, “Shut up,” before leaving the common room in what is absolutely not a sulk. Not even flooding the dungeons puts Sirius in a better mood, which drives home how (forgive the pun) _serious_ the situation is becoming.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Tandy Patrick is a third year Hufflepuff. She isn't soaringly popular, stunningly beautiful, or the cleverest student in school. But on March 6th, she is the center of attention when over breakfast, a black robed Ministry official and Professor Sprout escort her out of the hall.

 

Sirius will never, _never_ forget her scream. They can't see her, as she is beyond the open doors of the Great Hall, but they can hear her; the sound forms ice in Sirius' blood and raises the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. It's the keen of a animal that has lost a limb, a child that has been torn away from it's mother.

 

“What's happening?” each student asks the other, an endless wave of whispers and questions.

 

The Ministry wizard comes back in, visibly unnerved as he crosses the long hall. Dumbledore meets him halfway, where they speak in an undertone before the official leaves with a heavy, bowed head.

 

The Headmaster's stride is strong but slow, and he ascends the dais to stand above and before them all, Sirius thinks the twinkle that resides behind his half moon glasses may be newly replaced with unleashed tears. He confers with Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, their frantic tones but not their words reaching the students.

 

The Daily Prophet arrives moments later, in a rush of beating wings and floating feathers.

 

It's the headline story, none of them can miss it. Mr. and Mrs. Patrick and their three youngest children were murdered. The Prophet has a grainy, black and white photograph of a skull with a serpent curling out of its eye sockets and leering jaws hovering in the dawn sky of a neat looking home.

 

“Mr. Patrick was a muggle,” Wynne is saying, and she's so pale that she looks like a ghost. “They say that's why they did this. Right here it says it. Because Mrs. Patrick married a muggle, and their kids are half muggle, and –” She cuts off abruptly, tears trickling down her cheeks.

 

Lily Evans finds her feet, leaving the Great Hall in a frantic rush. She is not the only one.

 

“I'm a muggle born,” Wynne says, and Sirius can see her hands beginning to tremble. “What if...what if they find out about me? What if they hurt my family? Uncle Cary and Aunt Byrony and the kids? What if they hurt them because I'm a witch? Why would...why would _anyone_...?”

 

Wynne puts her hands over her face, and begins to cry. It's quiet, just her shoulders trembling and a few snuffles, but Sirius feels like he's going to vomit up what little breakfast he's eaten from hearing it. He wants to tell her that they'll all be fine, that she hasn't got anything to worry about, but he won't lie to her.

 

He knows what these people are capable of. He's related to most of them, after all.

 

 

After subdued and half-hearted classes, even on part of their professors, Sirius waves off Peter and James and Remus to catch Wynne outside the Great Hall before dinner. They go to the dormitory he shares with his friends, where Sirius toes off his shoes before pulling Wynne into his bed. The bed curtains are pulled tightly shut, cocooning them in darkness.

 

“No one can see,” Sirius explains, feeling awkward and just a bit stupid. “It's okay to, you know, cry. And stuff. If you need to. If not, you can leave. We can go eat dinner.”

 

Wynne practically crawls in his lap. She cries on Sirius' shoulder, and he pats her back and shoulders, not quite sure what he's supposed to do. He figures just letting her get it out is the best he can manage, and maybe it will make the guilt inside him ease up just a bit.

 

His family is the reason she's so upset. The reason Tandy Patrick is an orphan. His mother and father may not have held the wands that killed them, but they support Voldemort, the slaughter of muggles and muggleborns and squibs.

 

“I'm scared,” Wynne admits on a hitching sob. “Sirius, I'm really, _really_ scared.”

 

Sirius almost says _I am, too_ , but instead he grips Wynne so tight it's like he's trying to pull her though his flesh and bones, right into the center of him, where he can hide her away and keep her safe. “It'll be okay, Riley.”

 

“Oh my God, _Sirius_ ,” Wynne's laughing and crying at the same time, and in the dimness of the cave Sirius has created behind velvet curtains, she flails a bit before managing to slap him in the side. Her words are coated with exasperation. “I'm sobbing all over you, we've been naked together, and I've recently admitted that I want to be your girlfriend. I think you can call me Wynne!”

 

Sirius takes a moment to choose his words before speaking, a truly rare occurrence. “I can. But you're my Riley. And besides, how will you know when I'm being... _serious_ , for lack of a better term? Really serious, I mean.”

 

“You're always Sirius,” Wynne puns with a watery laugh.

 

“Terrible,” Sirius groans, “the worst. Just the _worst_ , Riley.” But she laughs, and that, Sirius thinks, is what matters.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish the Black's were real. And they had a reality show. Can you imagine the ratings? Who wouldn't tune in to see what kind of insanity Bellatrix would display or next, or the chance of catching Lucius trying on his wife's knickers while she watches? I would never stop watch it, ever. 
> 
> Also, Madame Black is a title, and not a hint that she's running a secret whore house of of 12 Grimmauld. (That would be kinda interesting, though, am I right?) The subject of wizarding world aristocracy will be explain in upcoming chapters. 
> 
> As always, thank you to my wonderful, amazing beta's. Seriously, they are amazing. And thank you to all the lurkers and reviewers alike, out there. Please do let me know your thoughts on HR!

The Forest is vast, rich and dark and so very, very alive. Sirius wants to burrow under the moist, fertile dirt and see the twisting and entangled roots of the trees; he wants to find each rabbit path under fallen logs and through dense brush; he yearns to search out every animal and smell and find out how each leaf on each branch creates a different shadow at different times during the day.

 

But more anything, more than _anything_ else in the world, he wants Wynne to come with him.

 

Unfortunately, he seems to have...misplaced her.

 

“She's never coming back,” he explodes into panic, twirling circles while whipping his head back and forth. “Riley's gone! Riley's lost! We're all alone!”

 

“We're being tracked.” Head high and eyes alert, James is still and silent as he scents the air and looks around him. “Remus. He's coming. He wants to find us.”

 

“Who cares about finding _us_?” Sirius nearly wails, tugging violently at his hair. “We need to find _Riley_!”

 

Twigs snap and leaves ruffle; James bolts, leaping high over a rotting and moss covered log before disappearing into the gloom. Rain drizzles coldly through the leaves, dampening all the interesting scents Sirius knows should be there. He thinks about Wynne, who under her perfumes smells like _female_ , like the gray peace before dawn and soft things and laughter. He thinks he catches just a hint of that scent and leaps after it, crashing noisily through branches, brambles, and upraised roots.

 

The rain patters like the heartbeats of tiny animals. Sirius wants to chase them, thinks it would be fun; first he'll find Wynne, then they can chase them together. She'll like that, won't she? Of course she will, everyone likes running.

 

Further away, Sirius distantly hears Remus bellowing, “Potter, so help me God, if you charge me _one more time_ –” and then a great big crash. Sirius giggles delightedly, skidding on wet leaves. Remus is finally in on the game. Good! Great! Now to find Wynne, so she can play.

 

Or maybe she _is_ playing. Maybe she ran away and is hiding, laughing behind her palms and waiting to be found.

 

That _must_ be it, Sirius decides. Of course it is! Clever, wonderful, pretty Wynne! Playing the game so well Sirius didn't even realize she _was_! Naughty Wynne, though, making him think she was _lost_. That wasn't very nice.

 

Crashing through a dense grouping of trees, Sirius finds himself in a small grove. It smells like cold rain, a north wind, and Wynne. She's huddled against the trunk of a huge old tree, knees pulled to her chest and her soggy hair a wild mess around her face.

 

“I found you!” Sirius announces proudly, darting across the clearing. He drops to his knees, skidding into Wynne thanks to a thin layer of mud and wet grass. He chortles happily as they bang together, even as he scrapes his palms on the tree trunk to keep from knocking her over.

 

Strangely, Wynne doesn't seem at all pleased. Instead of laughing, she huffs. Her teeth chatter, breath forming a wispy mist that hangs between their faces. Her mascara has ran rather dramatically, not only beginning to form rivulets, but also ringing darkly under her eyes. It looks like she got whacked in the face with a bludger, to be honest.

 

“You're it, now. We can go find James.” Sirius nudges her hopefully, trying to bring that playful, cheerful light to her eyes she likes so well. Doesn't she understand? They can run _together_ now, go find James and Remus and maybe, somehow taunt Peter into leaving the castle to play. They can have _fun_!

 

“Sirius,” says Wynne darkly, “you won't know when. You won't know where. _But I will_ _ **hurt**_ _you_.”

 

Blinking rapidly, Sirius tries to comprehend this unexpected turn. She didn't want to play at first, even seemed angry when he and James escaped the dorm room, but _surely_ she understands now, doesn't she? It's so _boring_ being cooped up in one room, nothing to do, listening to the cold rain tap the foggy windows and roof, with no way to work off all his energy. Sirius knew that as soon as he got her outside she'd _get it_ , would be happy and playful, would want to smell and run and discover just like he does.

 

Apparently he was wrong. Frantically trying to think of a way to make her not angry with him, he nervously says, “I like your hair,” before giving her a smile that he knows has made even fifth and sixth year girls stumble in the corridors.

 

Wynne _glowers_.

 

“I look like a drowned rat, you arse. We're going back to the castle, Remus can manage bringing in James.”

 

“But _Riley_ , we haven't got to run, and I just know there are – are rabbits and squirrels and other things out here. We can find them! We can see birds! _Birds_ , Riley!”

 

Wynne curls her fist in the front of Sirius' shirt before standing, dragging him along with her. Sirius whines and whimpers, not at _all_ ready to go back into the castle, but Wynne has the face of a thundercloud.

 

“I put myself on the line to brew this stupid Draught for you boys, and what happens? I end up in the bloody Forest, getting pneumonia in the rain, while you and James go on a lark trying to get your skulls kicked in by centaurs –”

 

“They're more prone to shooting arrows, actually,” says Sirius, helpfully.

 

“All these trees look the same! How the hell is anyone supposed to get anywhere in them?” Sliding on covering of soggy wet leaves, Wynne nearly topples. Sirius catches her by the arm, keeping her upright so she can continue fuming.

 

“Riley?” he does think to ask after a few moments. “Do you know that the castle is that way?”

 

Hissing like a tea kettle, she swings them around, marching determinedly in the given direction. Soon enough they break through the tree line to find Hagrid holding James with one hand, while Remus nurses a bleeding nose.

 

“What's gotten into yeh?” Hagrid asks, giving James a bone rattling shake, no doubt meant to put sense back into his captive teenager. “Yer actin' more like an animal than a boy.”

 

“Son a a _bitch_ ,” says Wynne with such violence that Sirius is actually shocked. She whirls on him, jabbing a finger at his face. “Be quiet, Sirius. No, wait, that's suspicious. Just, try and act normal, okay?”

 

Normal? What does she _mean_ , normal?

 

“I am,” he insists, “is this about the Draught? I told you earlier, it's not affecting me at _all_. I'm fine. I can't even tell I drank it!”

 

“Don't make me Stun you,” she hisses, eyes bright and dangerous. “I set a pillow on fire when I was practicing, and I'd hate to do the same to your head.”

 

Decidedly more meek than usual, Sirius follows her.

 

“Wynne?” asks Hagrid, looking quite baffled under his tangled hair and beard. “What're yeh doing, coming outta the Forest?”

 

At her side, Sirius watches as Wynne opens her mouth, stares with a new and wild looking expression of blank confusion. He waits for her to explain that they _had_ been playing a game, until she and Remus went mad and decided fun was no longer a part of their lives. Instead, much to his intense displeasure, Wynne bursts into tears.

 

Not a few tears, no, the kind that might be hidden in the rain. Wynne _sobs_ , shoulders heaving and jerking as she wails, staggering so violently Sirius wraps his hands around her ribs to keep her standing.

 

“It's all my fault! I – I was making a – a Pepper Up Potion, I thought I could brew one better than Madam Pomfrey, and I – I let James and Sirius drink it because they were feeling under the weather, and now they've gone _mad_! I thought adding more ptolemy and Sal Ammoniac would make it stronger, but it had an adverse reaction with the Gomas Barbadensis in the rue, and oh Hagrid, it will last _hours_!”

 

Hagrid, whose knowledge of potions is limited to the pre-mixed garden verity, appears uncomfortably baffled.

 

“Yeah, er, that can happen.” Hagrid nods sagely, while bearing the shifty expression of someone who doesn't have a clue about what he is agreeing with. “'Course it can. What's that have ter do with goin' inter the Forest, though?”

 

“They ran off. James and Sirius, I mean. Remus was helping me track them down.”

 

Remus bobs his head in agreement, though he is stemming his bleeding nose with pinched fingers and glaring absolute daggers at James. A James who has gone strangely still, eyes large and mouth round. Every little bit he squeaks, a bit like a mouse, but more like a frightened house elf.

 

“I know I did a really stupid thing, but I wanted to make it right, so I'm just going to take them upstairs and maybe tuck them into bed. I would take them to the Hospital Wing, but Aunt Byrony said if she gets one more owl from Professor McGonagall I'm spending the _whole summer_ under lock and key, and what kind of holiday is that? So I'm just going to take them now, alright? And please don't mention this to anyone? Please, Hagrid? _Please_?”

 

It takes only a bit more pleading on Wynne's part to convince Hagrid to release James into her custody. In the end the Draught influenced boy goes willingly into her grasp, following quietly as she and Remus hurry them back to the castle.

 

Sirius can't help but be impressed. Pretty _and_ a fantastic liar. If only she appreciated the true artistry behind dungbombs...

 

“When they take the final dose of the Draught, we are tying them to something,” Wynne informs Remus with a cold sort of sternness. “I swear I saw a bloody giant spider in those woods, and I am never – I repeat _never_ – going in them again.”

  
Remus doesn't argue, and (wisely) neither do Sirius and James.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

The silence in the fourth year boys' dorm is one that stinks of shame and debilitating embarrassment. No one meets the gaze of another person; instead their eyes flicker abashedly from face, to ceiling, to floor, to window, always finding somewhere else to look as they choke down their horror.

 

Almost exactly twenty hours ago, on the previous day, the boys had taken their final dose of the Draught.

 

“I...” James pauses, clearing his throat as everyone winces. Recent events are still far too raw to stomach _speaking_. “I think it would be best if we...if we don't tell anyone about, um, all... _that_.”

 

Peter, wrapped in a tattered and stained sheet, smelling strongly of alcohol and honey, as well as boasting two purple and black eyes with a painfully swollen nose, says, “I really am sorry about the thing that...that happened with the...should I go down to the kitchens and apologize?”

 

“No,” says James scathingly. “You've caused the house elves enough trauma. Just...just stay away from the kitchens, at least until next term.”

 

“We never speak of it again,” commands Remus, still flaking thick, dried mud with every movement. “It never happened. Alright? None of it ever happened.”

 

“But I think after what Sirius did to Wynne, they're technically married in _several_ cultures –” Peter is cut off by a violently issued hex from a snarling, scarlet faced Sirius.

 

Everyone, including Sirius, studiously avoid looking at Wynne. Dressed in fluffy pajamas and a flannel dressing gown, she continues pulling a comb through her damp hair, as though she had not heard Peter speak. The only clues to her discomfort are the in rigidness of her spine, her refusal to look to Sirius (who somehow manages to look shamefully pleased with himself), and the color dribbling down her cheeks to her throat.

 

Peter flops about on the floor, pink bottom on display as he flails out of his ratty sheet. Extremely large bat bogeys are busy working their way out of his nostrils.

 

“It never happened,” Sirius avows, nodding firmly.

 

“ _Never_ ,” James repeats.

 

Peter is a bit too busy to agree, though they all assume his muffled shrieks are ones of assent.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

For Sirius, the summer holiday is the _worst_. He's stuffed into stiff robes, heavy with embroidery and jewels and starch, his hair tied back with a neat ribbon (even it bearing the Black family crest), and sent out to suffer through his mother's brunches, luncheons, teas, suppers, parties, and balls.

 

“A lovely piece, isn't it?” Walburga will comment to a guest when she catches their eyes lingering on a Zarubin I painting, a portrait of a Black woman captured in the spring of her beauty, or Black children playing at a picnic on the grounds of the Manor or château. “It's a Pavel Zarubin – the First, of course, though his grandson is still the chief portraitist for the family. Sirius and Regulus have set for the Third several times.”

 

When their eyes turn to Sirius, who slumps in an arrogant sort of boredom that states, without him ever saying a word, that he would rather be _anywhere_ other than here, she smiles like a snake that has slithered into an unlocked hen house full of eggs. She gestures to him and says, “The Black heir: Sirius Orion Black the Third.”

 

Sirius thinks this is what a circus animal must feel like. Trotted out to perform tricks, locked away when the paying customers are gone. It's _dreadful_.

 

After the first two weeks, it becomes easier. The family moves, en masse, to the château, yet another ancestral seat of the Black family. Uncle Alphard comes, even though everyone knows he and Mother are just barely on speaking terms.

 

“She might be the Madame,” Uncle Al grumbles on their first night in the château, “but she can't control us all.”

 

“Really?” asks Sirius dryly, arching his eyebrows. “Someone really should tell her that, as she's got other ideas.”

 

“Are you mad, boy?” demands Alphard, eyes growing comically wide. “She'd do worse than kill the messenger.”

 

“What's she going to do, blast us off that stupid tapestry? Like I _care_.” Snorting, Sirius rolls bonelessly onto his back, glowering up at the canopy of his uncle's bed. The heavily polished and sculpted wood of the outer frame contains a tapestry, a scene of long dead wizards and witches at hunt. Across the millions and millions of threads run soundlessly baying hounds, quick foxes darting through miniscule and cleverly worked bushes and footpaths, manes and ladies trains fluttering majestically in the breeze.

 

“It used to mean something, Sirius. The tapestry, I mean. We've made it...” Searching for the right words to describe his feelings. Alphard gives a low noise of pain, disgust, and anger. “We've perverted it. It's unclean, now. Dirty. _Toujours pur_ my rosy arse. It's a mania, Sirius, their obsession with blood purity. Never forget that.”

 

Being in France, spending lazy afternoons on the banks of the river with Uncle Alphard, _torturing_ the newly married Narcissa and her idiot husband Lucius (they both scream like little girls over toads in their bed and itching power in their perfume), it keeps Sirius away from his mother. He and Regulus spend more time together, easily avoiding any subject that causes strain between them. They ride every day, and spend hours in the stable.

 

Regulus drags Sirius to the music room often, playing Sirius pieces he's working on, even showing his older brother proof of the most defiance he's ever shown to their parents' rules. He has the classics of di Mercurio, Acerbi, Rezikova, Bellerose, and Cavey, these pillars of greatness and genius in the wizarding world. But hidden among them are the works of _muggle_ composers. Beethoven, Mozart, Vivaldi, two different Bachs, and Verdi; Regulus caresses their notes like a secret lover, appearing to be both infatuated and ashamed.

 

“Ludvig van Beethoven was deaf. He sawed the legs off his piano and would play with one ear to the floor, so he could hear it's vibrations. Can you imagine? Being full up with music, and not being able to hear any of it, not even your own? I'd go mad, I swear it.”

 

“Go mad?” Sirius questions, ruffling through the sheet music. He can read it, understands it, even enjoys it; but he doesn't love it, not like Reg does. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you already are.”

 

“Says the boy that got caught sunbathing nude on the terrace.”

 

Sirius just laughs, before helping Regulus hide his contraband sheet music.

 

What has it been, two weeks? Two and a half? Sirius is terrible with time, he can't be sure; he's written a dozen letters, and received perhaps twice that, all to and from James and Peter and Remus and Wynne. It must be two weeks, Sirius decides, counting up the amount of letters he's gotten. (It isn't an exact measurement of time, letter counting, but it is better than applying himself to a daily calendar. It gives him the willies to mark the days off, seeing how many have already gone by.)

 

However long it's been, it's a day like any other. Bright and hazy, warm, with bees buzzing and humming over the poppies and violets and lavender bushes in the gardens, while he river gleams in the thick sunshine, trees and verdant grass rustling soothingly in the cooling breeze. Sirius is on his way out, shirt sleeves and trousers rolled up, hair messily tied back (Wynne made a comment before the end of term that she liked it long, but that isn't why Sirius hasn't cut it, not at all), when Sirius hears china rattling in the Green Room.

 

It's Mother's favorite parlor at the château, where she takes the most important – or well liked (though Walburga Black _rarely_ likes _anyone_ ) – guests. Sirius, silent as a shadow, shoeless and brown from all his time in the sun, slinks close to the wall and listens. One of the parlor's doors are open, allowing the voices inside to flow out into the cool corridor.

 

“We're very pleased to receive you,” says Mother, and there is a tiny little _clink_ , the barely-there sound of her cup being replaced in its saucer. “Your work is inspiring, and so very needed.”

 

“I am glad that you see the worthiness of my cause,” says a high, cold voice, and shivers tremble down Sirius' spine. He has never heard it before, never imagined that he would, but he _knows_ it. It makes his palm ache for his wand, his temples throb, his magic burn and surge under his skin.

 

But it can't be – it _can't_. His mother is mad and vicious and convinced of their family's superiority, but there is no possible way she would invite that...that _cowardly monster_ to a “home of her father's, and his father's, and theirs long before.”

 

 _Except_ , a voice inside Sirius whispers, _she would. She has_.

 

“I hope that you understand why my husband and I cannot publicly aid you.” Another click. She has sat down her saucer. There is no silence in between her words; instead there is the ruffling of fabric, the tick of the clock, birds chirping beyond the windows. Sirius' heart is pounding so hard he thinks his ribs will be broken from the inside. “That does not mean we will not support you in other ways. It isn't polite to speak of such things, I know, but we are a very wealthy family, my Lord. I would spend every last Galleon and sell every last treasure under our roofs to ensure that my sons' futures will be in a world where the purity of their blood assures them a place of honor.”

 

“As it rightly should be,” answers this monster in a man's body, with a faint and sibilant _twist_ around his words. “You know the worth of clean blood, Madame Black. It is time the rest of the world understood it.”

 

“It pains me, you know. To see my sons at Hogwarts, sharing classes and even _meals_ with mud bloods Filthy things. Dirty, nasty blood, and I won't have it, I won't _allow it_ any longer!”

 

Sirius flees. It goes against every bit of his nature to turn, to hide, to not burst in and shout and fight, but he _knows_ how devastating the effects of those actions would be. He is a half trained boy, skin pulled tight over growing bones, hands and feet too big for his body. He's more than clever enough to realize he would be ending his own life if he acts on his instincts.

 

Uncle Alphard learns of the visit before Sirius can tell him about it. Father and Mother and Uncle Alphard gather in the Yellow Room before dinner, with Sirius and Regulus lurking in the hall to listen.

 

“Don't you realize what you're _doing_?” Alphard is shouting, and there is a great crash of china. “Genocide, Wally, that is what you're funding. The mass extermination of an entire people and culture!”

 

“People? Culture? My God, Alphard, they're barely more than animals. What sort of culture could they possibly have?”

 

“They aren't like us, old man,” says Father, ice clinking in his glass as he moves. “They're _less_ than us. It's the natural order of things. I'm not saying they should all be penned up and killed, but I wouldn't allow my hunting dogs the freedom to do as they please, why would I let them?” There is a calm, cold logic in his voice, and it is far worse than Mother's fierce, violent rages. “They need to be controlled, and kept in order. We are above them, they are below us. Honestly, all this will do is put things back in their natural balance, and they'll be happier for it, just wait and see.”

 

Sirius goes to his uncle after this confrontation (limping, nose bleeding and chest aching after a particularly ferocious fight with Bellatrix, who may have snapped his nose, but lost every last strand of her hair in the process), banging into Alphard's apartment without a knock or announcement. Nan, his uncle's house elf, is packing; Alphard's magnificently ornate trunk is wide open, carefully being filled with all his belongings.

 

“Take me with you,” Sirius half begs and half demands. “I can't stay here, Uncle Al. Not with them.”

 

“Sirius, your nose...” Alphard heals Sirius' nose with a painful _crack_ , dousing a silk handkerchief in cool water from his wash basin before tenderly cleaning the blood from Sirius' face. He is infinitely gentle, and so very _loving_. It makes Sirius' heart ache, and he wonders if his mother ever touched him like this.

 

He doesn't think so.

 

“Your mother...” Alphard starts, but trails off, mouth twisting in disgust. It takes him a long moment to find his words. “Sirius, if you leave, Wally won't forget. She certainly won't forgive you for it.”

 

“I hate them,” Sirius says, the words spilling out him like the gush of water from a broke facet. “I hate the thought of leaving Hogwarts for the summer and coming back here, because I have to be with them. I hate the way they shove stupid 'blood purity' down my throat, and try and tell me who I may and may not be friends, all because of their bloodline. I don't _care_ about any of that, Uncle Al, and I don't think it's right. I don't want to be under her roof. Not if it means having to agree with them to keep the peace.”

 

Stroking Sirius' hair (like he is a beaten, skittish animal that needs soothing) Alphard stares into the distance.

 

“You're sure?” he asks, without actually looking at his nephew. “You know your mother's nature, Sirius.”

 

“I'm leaving one way or another,” Sirius answers, “with or without you. I can't stand to be here, not after that. At least for a while; _please_ , Uncle Al. Please.”

 

They leave together, Walburga's wails of rage at their backs.

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: No, I haven't abandoned HR -- I'm far too obsessed with it to that. I'm just slow. :) Thank you, as always, to my wonderful and amazing betas, who deal not only with my rambling, but all my insane typos. And MASSIVE thanks to everyone that not only reads, but also reviews! I know this sort of fanfic doesn't have much of a readership, and knowing that there are people out there in the fandom enjoying it makes me day and helps me write a bit more quickly. :) Please, DO feed the author!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but the original characters.

The sunshine is thick and golden as wild honey. Bees hum over the field of wild violets and poppies, lavender and daisies. Not far off the river is a song as it flows over smooth polished rocks, quick and laughing. Wynne lies on her back, a crown of flowers crooked on her head, and she is smiling as she plops a newly woven circlet on Sirius' dark hair.

 

“We match,” she says with a laugh, and somehow she hooks her feet behind his knees. Her hands lift to his bare shoulders, slide up to his neck, down his back and side. She's wearing white, something small and thin and utterly pristine against the summer tanned skin of Sirius' hand. He splays his fingers over her hip, pushes until the fabric slides up and he can see her thigh, the constellation of dark freckles near the top. She laughs again, tugs until he's only just hovering over her, and her mouth is wet, warm, and smiling against his own.

 

Sirius kisses Wynne until he can't breathe, until he's forgotten the flowers, the river, the sun. Everything that is not Wynne, is not Sirius, is not the  _them_  created here and now, it is lost and will never be looked for again. She sighs and kisses the corner of his mouth, curls her fingers in his hair, and Sirius wonders how he has lived a whole life without this.

 

She's gone. Where? How? Dirty, bare feet leave marks on the polished floor as Sirius races through the château. Outside the world is still stunningly bright, beautiful, but there's darkness eating away the edges of the blue sky.

 

“It pains me, you know. To see my sons at Hogwarts, sharing classes and  _meals_ with the mud bloods. Filthy things!” Sirius hears his mother's voice, echoing out from the Green Room. The harder he runs, the slower he moves. “Dirty, nasty blood, and I won't have it, I won't  _allow_  it any longer!”

 

A snap. A flood of green light that burns Sirius' eyes, cracks his skin. By the time he enters the Green Room, it's to see Wynne dead on the floor. Her blue eyes are empty and glazed, eternally blind. Scarlet blood wells up between her pink lips, and Sirius screams – screams until his throat is raw and his mind is cracking – while his mother laughs, and a monster in human flesh sips his tea and smiles.

 

Sirius wakes with a strangled shout. The is sheet is wound tightly around his legs and stomach, trapping him, and Sirius fights hard to free himself from it. His struggles send him toppling over the edge of the soft mattress, whacking the floor with a hard  _thump_  that is quieted by the thick rug covering the hardwood.

 

Thankfully, he doesn't wake Alphard, or his uncle's partner, Gerhard. Not even Nan pops in to check on him, and so Sirius is free to unwind himself while muttering all the filthiest, most vile curses he can muster. He's going to have a goose egg on the side of his head, thankfully hidden under his hair. It's already swelling into a tight knot, which will no doubt blossom into a spectacular bruise.

 

Grumbling, knowing he won't possibly make it back to sleep after  _that_  dream and painful awakening, Sirius goes to his desk. A flick of his wand lights the candles, and Sirius settles down in the dark hour before dawn to answer letters. He's still waiting on a reply from his last one to Peter, so he moves on to Remus, who is recovering from a full moon. Apparently it was an incredibly rough one, or so the spaces in between Remus' words say.

 

James' letter is full of wild boredom and pride that Sirius ran away from home; even if it was only to his uncle's, and even if he'll have to go back to his parents' home come the next holiday. Sirius replies with equal boredom, and spends five pages ranting about his family.

 

By now the sky is slowly lightening, turning gray. Birds are beginning to call to each other, singing gay morning songs as they awaken for the day. It is during this time Sirius turns to Wynne's latest letter, his stomach knotting painfully. A part of him wants to hurl it in the fire and be done with it. He's never before felt responsible for anyone or anything else, and the weight of it sits uncomfortably on Sirius' youthful, selfish, and entirely too narrow shoulders.

 

He would never forgive himself if he got her killed.

 

On the other hand, Wynne is... _Wynne_. A necessity, at this point. Sirius wouldn't know how to ignore her, how to  _not_  be her friend. And more than that, he may have to protect her, one day. Wynne is many things, but she is no duelist, no creature made for the now ongoing war that seems to be growing, in both vileness and violence.

 

Wynne was made for times of peace and comfort. Without someone to care for her...Sirius doesn't want to think of it, he really doesn't.

 

He pins up the muggle photographs she sends; Wynne on the northern beach near her home, a rare day of sunshine and blue skies. Her bathing suit is shockingly small (witches have yet to feel comfortable with exposed knees and elbows), and dark sunglasses dominate her face. Sirius can see sand on her thighs and arms, and has to smile at the others, which showcase Wynne, two small children, and a lopsided sand castle.  _Celia and Leopold, ages six and two, Uncle Cary and Aunt Byrony's children_ , or so the writing on the back of the snap claims. The last shows Wynne holding the boy's hand as they wade into the surf, the brown haired girl on Wynne's other side caught in a silent, eternal shriek of delight.  _Wynne takes Celia and Leo into the sea_ , this one reads in a different hand,  _August 08_ _th_ _, 1974._

 

Now he answers her letter.  _I've left France_ , he writes,  _Uncle Al and I are back in London_. He doesn't tell her the whole story – maybe later, at school. She has a way of prying things out of him. He also doesn't tell her about his nightmare and how many times he's had it since returning to London, or how he so recently convinced himself that it's up to him to keep her safe. Instead he asks about her family, which is polite, and then mocks her for being a choir girl. He imagines her grandfather the vicar would  _die_  if he knew his granddaughter was a witch, or what she got up to at school.

 

At the very end, after a rambling account of a Quidditch game with local children at Crabbe Park, Sirius asks,  _do you ever think about what happened the last time I took the Draught_? Splotches of ink form at the end, from Sirius' nervous hovering, as though he might scratch it out. Instead he leaves it, signs his name and owls her letter with the others, before he can take it back.

 

Wynne's answer arrives late the next day, long before Sirius' owl Icarus does. Once again Sirius lights candles, this time to read by, and props himself up against his pillows to do so. Hootie, Wynne's owl, drinks deeply of Icarus' water dish and nibbles happily at a handful of owl treats Sirius spread out for him.

 

 _Granddad works hard to save my soul_ , she writes to him, and maybe Sirius only imagines that there is something sour to the words.  _He's afraid I'm too much like mum._  She complains about the amount of time spent helping her Gran in the garden, as well as canning vegetables and making jams and currant wines ( _much more boring than potion making_ ), and tells Sirius about her idiot cousin Josie.

 

At the end, in a slightly less steady hand than Sirius is used to seeing, she writes this:  _of course I do. Don't you? I think about it_ _too much_ _._

 

Leaning back against his pillows and headboard, Sirius hisses out a long breath, suddenly dizzy. They all agreed never to speak of it again, the wildness that came out when the last dose of the Draught was taken. But Sirius remembers it, and all too well.

 

He remembers Peter escaping the dorm room and Remus ordering Wynne to watch him and James before taking off after their friend; the way James bolted and Sirius lunged, their actions concurrent to each other. Pinning Wynne against the wall, he kissed her until his lungs screamed for air, biting at her lip until her blood welled up, and he discovered the tang of it sliding across his tongue. Her hands were at his shoulders, his stomach, in his hair; and finally her voice in his ear; “The door, Sirius, the door – they'll see, everyone will see –”

 

Wynne's worry bled into his mind, and he left her long to shut the door and lock it, before dragging her onto his bed, tugging and tearing at her clothes. Sirius found Wynne's breasts, learned the way her nipples pebbled under his tongue; scrapped his teeth against the tender flesh of her stomach, then sucked dark marks onto her hips. His memories are sharp when it comes to her scent and taste and the feel of her under his hands, but he's never quite sure of how or when he rids Wynne of her skirt and knickers.

 

“Sirius, wait. Wait! You don't know what you're doing, you're not in your – not in your right mind –” Wynne pulled at his hair, his ears, pressed her heels hard into the mattress and tried to push away from him. “Damn it, this isn't how it's supposed to – I don't want to take advantage – you're going to be  _really_  angry later, so just  _wait_!”

 

Huffing in frustration, Sirius lifted his head. Wynne stared back at him with huge eyes, bare chest heaving as she knotted one hand in the sheet and used the other push at his shoulder, lightly and without any real force behind it

 

“We shouldn't,” she said thinly, but what little resolve she had was melting like ice in August. “The Draught...it's not fair to you.”

 

Fair to him?  _Fair to him_? Sirius leveled a glare on her, one so fierce that he felt her shiver. “I want you,” he told her plainly, running his thumb along the seam where her thigh and hip meet just to make her shiver again. “I  _always_  want you.”

 

Wynne's expression morphed into one of sheer, unrestrained lust. She attempted to pull him up her body, trying to use her knees and hips to flip him onto his back. Sirius didn't allow it, pulling her under him again and again, using his torso to hold her legs open. He bathed her inner thighs with his tongue, held onto her so tightly he knows he had to have left bruises.

 

By the time Remus charmed the door open Wynne was sobbing, and not from fear or anger; she had turned to hot, slick liquid under Sirius' tongue, thighs trembling and hands clinched in the bedsheets as she begged. Sirius saw red at the interruption, was torn between covering Wynne (he nearly went up in angry flames at the thought of anyone else seeing her like this) and attacking the gaping Remus. Peter was laughing, shrill and nervous, while pointing at them.

 

“What the hell?” asked Remus, not seeing the way Wynne's hips involuntarily lifted in a plea for the return of Sirius' mouth, not hearing the pained catch in her breathing at the interruption, even while she struggled to jerk the blanket up to cover her. “Sirius – Jesus Christ, Wynne, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

 

“No, it's – it's fine, Remus, I promise.” Sirius helped her cover her breasts with the scarlet blanket, remained between her thighs, vibrating with how much he wanted to close the curtains and continue, or kick Remus and Peter out and continue, or find fucking  _anywhere else_  and continue.

 

But Wynne's hand on his neck, her mouth against his ear whispering soothingly as she sat up, it kept him calm. Calm enough to let her wrap up in the blanket, to be somewhat contented with her sitting between his legs and surrounded by his arms while Remus glared daggers.

 

“He didn't hurt me,” Wynne kept assuring their friend, blushing hotly but not looking away from Remus' gaze. “I – it wasn't – he  _didn't_ hurt me, Remus, I promise.”

 

Remus almost didn't go after Peter when the other boy escaped again (no doubt sensing Remus' unwillingness to leave Sirius alone with Wynne again, Peter wagered that his bid for freedom would be an unhindered one), but Wynne urged him on. “I'll be fine,” she swore. “We both will. It's okay. See if you can find James while you're at it.”

 

Sirius has to stop remembering here. His hands are trembling, chest aching as he fights for breath. If James hadn't come back when he did – he dreams about the  _if_. Imagines it too bloody often.

 

He doesn't answer the whole letter, doesn't have the focus, willpower, or desire to do so. Instead he goes to his desk and hastily writes,  _sometimes I have your taste on the back of my tongue, randomly, for no reason. I want it again. I think about your mouth. I think about you._

 

Sirius doesn't bother signing it, and sends the short message to Wynne with her owl. Not much later, when he comes hot and sticky over his hand, it's Wynne's name he's pushing out between tightly gritted teeth. Images swirl and fuse behind his eyelids, memory and imaginings alike, and as his stomach quivers and the world shakes down around his ears, Sirius can't quite remember why he fought this for so long.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

It's August 29th, and there are only three days of the summer holiday left; come September 1st the entire student body of Hogwarts will swarm Platform 9 ¾ with family members to see them off. Of course Sirius will be one of them, and he looks forward to it. As much as he adores his Uncle Alphard and Gerhard, he longs for Quidditch practice and his friends, the thrill of exploring the dusty, hidden parts of Hogwarts under James' cloak, the excitement of planning some great prank that will wreak havoc on the school.

 

He misses Wynne in a way that makes him uncomfortable and raw. He dreams about her knees at his hips, hands in his hair, and how he wants her to say his name – like a prayer, a salvation, an endless chant of subjugation. Sometimes it's hard for Sirius to think about other things, to focus on finishing the remains of his schoolwork or to carry on a conversation with his uncle or Gerhard. His mind is too cluttered up with Wynne, fantasies, and her letters.

 

Merlin's beard, her  _letters_. The letters he sends  _her_. If Uncle Alphard ever found them...Sirius shudders to think of it.

 

Early in the morning, while he is still dressing for the day, he receives a note from Wynne.  _The Leaky Cauldron, 8 o'clock AM. Don't be late!_  Sirius rubs his thumb over the ink until it smudges, wondering at the message. Maybe she's going shopping at Diagon Alley today, for her school things? That must be it, Sirius thinks, and his grin is piratical as he thinks of all the alleys and nooks they can hide in to lose her aunt and uncle for a while.

 

“What's your hurry?” asks Gerhard over the breakfast table.

 

Sirius pauses in the act of bolting his food down, swallowing hard. “A friend will be in Diagon Alley today,” he says, “I don't want to miss her.”

 

“ _Her_?” questions Alphard, lowering the morning edition of the  _Daily Prophet_. “Oho, and who's this 'her', then?”

 

“Don't you pay attention?” Gerard grumbles, flicking a bit of toast at Sirius' uncle. “It's Wynne Riley, the little blonde girl in the pictures in his room. Even  _I_  notice this.” Smug amusement thickens Gerhard's accent.

 

“I know,” hisses Alphard, nose in the air. “I was  _attempting_  to make him tell us about her.”

 

“I'll bring her over,” Sirius says impulsively. “If she has time.”

 

“Bringing her home to meet family,” says Gerhard lowly, prodding Alphard with one elbow. “Might we plan the wedding now?”

 

“If we all married the ones we fancied at fifteen, I would be having breakfast now with Matilda Greenspire, and not you. Or mourning Matilda Greenspire; she was a muggle born Hufflepuff, and I quite imagine my parents would have, at best, forbidden me to see her. Or cut me off entirely. Wally may well have killed us both.”

 

“Franz...hmm, I can't remember his last name now.” Gerhard's brow furrows. “Kappel? Franz...Hitzig! Ja, Franz Hitzig. He died in the war...too young...”

 

While the old men (to Sirius' mind, at least) become lost in memories, Sirius slips away. This particular residential area of wizarding London is quiet and still, a fog (purple, this morning) from the many chimneys shrouding the air. Sirius cuts a quick path through it, out of his uncle's neighborhood and into the poorer districts. Well, middle-class; vastly poor, compared to Uncle Alphard, who inherited two separate fortunes, and whose home sits on nearly twenty acres. It's the largest surviving manor home in wizarding London, with all the original land intact.

 

Compared to that, the multicolored row houses and charmingly renovated flats are shockingly small and cheap.

 

It takes fifteen minutes to reach Diagon Alley, and not even five for Sirius to make his way to the  _Cauldron_. He has nearly twenty minutes to wait for Wynne to arrive, and so he takes a table near the door and orders tea. His first cup has just barely been properly flavored and stirred when the bell above the door rings and Wynne steps inside.

 

Very briefly, Sirius forgets to breathe.

 

“Hey!” Wynne spots him after only a moment, darting to his table. She's flushed and smiling as she drops into a chair, pulling it closer than is strictly necessary to Sirius. (Not that he minds.) “You're early. How long have you been waiting?”

 

“Just got my tea,” Sirius answers, holding up his cup as proof. “ _You're_  early. I thought you didn't wake at this time for anything less than a natural disaster.”

 

“I got in about four this morning,” Wynne admits, pouring herself a cup. “Mum asked me to spend the last few days of my holiday with her, and like a  _moron_ , I came. She sent a driver for me yesterday, so I don't suppose I really could have refused when he showed up on the doorstep. Anyway, I got in at four, but when mum and I were just sitting down to an early breakfast, she got a call and had to rush off. I don't imagine she'll be back anytime soon.” Wynne does her best to look as though she could not possibly care any less, but Sirius notes the way she doesn't meet his eyes, and the tension in her shoulders.

 

“But since I'm in London at the same time as you, I thought you'd like to...come over.” Wynne smiles; it's a bit lopsided, her dimples are deep, and Sirius would have to be an idiot not to understand what she  _isn't_  saying. Not with the way she's looking at him and the nervous twist of the tea cup in her fingers; especially when taking into consideration the letters they've been sending.

 

He has to clear his throat twice before he can speak. “Oh, yeah, that's...cool. Good plan. How long is your mum going to be gone for?”

 

“I don't even know if she's going to come back tonight or not. She might not show up until tomorrow. Or the day after. Or she might catch a flight and call me from France, or Spain, or America; Merlin knows, with her.” Wynne's smile deepens, and so does her flush.

 

Sirius nearly turns the table over, he's in such a rush to reach the bar and pay.

 

Wynne takes his hand as they leave  _The Leaky Cauldron_ , threading her fingers through his as she pulls him out onto the muggle street. It's a rare occurrence that Sirius finds himself here, and he's glad he dressed casually this morning, in denim and a long sleeved shirt. Wynne hails a cab easily; obviously she's well practiced at it. Reflex has Sirius holding the door open for her as she climbs into the backseat, the browbeating of etiquette tutors finally paying off.

 

Wynne gives the driver an address on Courtenay Avenue before leaning settling against the seat. Her hair is only partially tied back today; the top is caught in a loose, low bun, while the rest drips down her back and over her shoulders in long curls. Sirius slides close enough to feel it brushing his arm after he pulls his sleeves up to his elbows, heart pounding so hard that the taste of panic and excitement mingle and burn together on his tongue.

 

Leaning close, nose brushing Wynne's cheek, Sirius whispers, “This is my first time in a lorry.”

 

She twists, nose and forehead scrunching in a disbelieving smile. “What,  _really_?” she asks, blinking several times. Sirius captures her hand, noting how her fingers tremble as they press between his. “You're kidding, right?”

 

“Do you think my parents would  _ever_  catch a muggle cab?” asks Sirius, and it's either the way he whispers the deadpan question or his expression, or perhaps both, that makes Wynne bite back laughter.

 

“Alright, I believe you. Well, enjoy it then.”

 

According to Wynne's watch, which Sirius steals a glance at every so often, the ride takes about twenty minutes; to Sirius, it feel like  _hours_. They finally come to a detached home on a nice lot, with a neatly maintained front garden beyond the open security gate.

 

The cab drops them off on a circular gravel drive at the front of the house; Wynne thanks the driver and pays before pulling Sirius up the steps, and then through the front door. She kicks off her shoes, kicking them to the side.

 

Sirius follows suit, before Wynne gestures to be followed. He does without question, ready to be somewhere private. Through her gauzy shirt he can see flashes of pale skin, and when she turns the faint dip and shadow of her belly button is visible. It's torture.

 

He takes her hand, rubs his thumb across her wrist just to watch her shiver. Wynne nearly trips on the staircase because of it, which makes Sirius grin. He winks at her flustered look, feeling as though his heart may very well pound of his chest at any given moment.

 

“Miss Wynne?” The call startles them both, breaking the swelling anticipation. Sirius twists, looking for the speaker. His eyes become drawn to a doorway where footsteps and a shadow is approaching.

 

Wynne winces, giving a dramatic roll of her eyes before she moves to the outer banister and leans over it. Her smile is charming, all deep dimples and guileless blue eyes as an older woman in a crisp black and white uniform steps out. “I'm back earlier than expected. Sorry I didn't shout, but I thought you were out, doing the shopping.”

 

“Mmhmm,” hums the older woman, her uniform so stiffly starched it could walk away and begin cleaning of its own volition. “You didn't mention you'd be bringing a young man home with you.”

 

“I said I'd be bringing home a  _friend_ ,” Wynne stresses, “what's it matter if he's a boy?”

 

“Miss Dita would think it matters a great deal.”

 

Wynne brushes the disapproval away, positively beaming. “Oh jeez, Maggie; Sirius and I go to school together. We're together seven days a week, probably eighteen hours a day, nearly ten months out of the year. At  _least_  once a week we fall asleep together on a sofa in the common room. If I haven't come up pregnant yet, I don't think I will today, either.”

 

“Nasty talk,” grumbles the housekeeper, giving Sirius the stink eye. He grins at her, rocking back on his heels. “Ladies don't talk about pregnancy at your age, Miss Wynne.”

 

“I'm not a lady,” retorts Wynne, deepening her northern accent in a way that makes this Maggie wince. “Go on, go do your shopping. You're already running behind, spying on me for Mum.”

 

“It's not  _spying_ , miss; it's keeping you in check.”

 

“I'm going to help her with maths,” Sirius puts in, attempting to look as innocent as is humanly possible. “Honest, ma'am. She's miserable at it, wouldn't pass if it weren't for me.”

 

It seems the housekeeper knows that Wynne  _is_  as miserable with maths as Sirius rightfully claims, and her distrust visibly lessens. “Oh, alright then. I'll be back in time for lunch.  _Behave_  yourself, Miss Wynne.”

 

Wynne waves goodbye, before darting past Sirius, gesturing for him to follow. They trample upstairs to the first level, moving quickly along to the second.

 

At the top of the second landing is another door, which Wynne shuts and locks behind them. They stand in a narrow hall. To Sirius' left is a room that ends in two floor to ceiling windows. It boasts cluttered and groaning bookshelves, several comfortable looking chairs, and a fireplace. Ahead of them is a closed door, which Sirius suspects is either a dressing room or a toilet.

 

To his right is a set of wide doors, thrown open to reveal a room full of natural light and color. A violin rests in an open case on a chase lounge, and a music stand with rumpled sheet music by one of the windows. The bed is quite large – much too big to warrant just one person – and the mere sight of it makes Sirius' stomach jolt.

 

Licking suddenly dry lips, he looks to Wynne. For once he's unsure of how to proceed; he knows what he wants, knows what Wynne has claimed to want, but what to do  _now_? Letters are one thing, admitting secrets in writing, not having to risk face-to-face rejection. This is entirely different, and completely new territory. It is vastly different from the awkward winter afternoon in which they abandoned their combined virginity, and Sirius is not all primal, animal instinct as he was when under the influence of the Draught.

 

He looks to Wynne, and finds her watching him with huge, darkened eyes. Her breathing is quick and shallow, and her hands are curled tightly at her sides, as though she's attempting to restrain herself. From what? From taking Sirius, pushing him down and taking him inside her body as fiercely and quickly as she can possibly manage. He can see it her mouth, the line of her shoulders, the way she cocks her hips to the side and  _watches_  him.

 

Sirius forgets how to breathe.

 

“We don't have to do anything,” Wynne says, despite the way she's listing towards him. “Really. I don't want to pressure you into anything.”

 

A bark of laughter escapes Sirius, rough and loud. “I thought that was  _my_  line, seeing as I'm the man here.”

 

Wynne shrugs, releasing her taunt fists to rub her hands against the denim covering her thighs. Her smile is faint, and doesn't come close to her eyes. “I know you've been wary about it. And that's fine. I'm not going to ask you to do something you aren't comfortable with.”

 

Sirius thinks back on the past months,  _years_  even; of friendship and teasing and waking up with soiled sheets and images of Wynne dancing across his fading dreams; of pushing her away and denying it all, of fighting to keep away from this aspect of what  _could_  be between them, simply because he was (is?) half terrified that everything will change. That  _he_  will change. He recalls the letters, the tremble in his thighs and stomach as he read  _at school I had to bite my pillow, afraid the girls would hear me even though I've put a silencing charm on all my bed curtains._

 

He knows this is a moment of truth, of choice. He can walk away, and the status quo will never change. They'll be friends –  _great_  friends – but nothing more. Wynne will move on, and he will sit back and watch as she finds someone that won't turn her away.

 

Sirius doesn't care to remember a time when he wasn't in orbit around Wynne. He certainly doesn't want to imagine one where he no longer is.

 

His answer is straightforward and to the point; stepping forward he places his hands on her hips and kisses her. It's like sparks catching dry tinder, creating embers that promise to become a blaze so bright and high it could burn down the world. Wynne gives a choked noise of relief, desperately clutching at his shoulder and waist.

 

Despite how Sirius began this kiss, slow isn't an option. Wynne is wildfire in his hands, out of control and half out of her mind from the beginning. She pulls and tugs until he's following her, blindly, into her bedroom. She breaks away from his mouth, walking backwards on her tip toes and still somehow managing to work her mouth down his neck, making shock waves of lust surge through Sirius.

 

Once they're close to the bed Wynne pulls away, breathing heavily as she reaches behind her and begins tugging on the knotted sash of her blouse. Sirius is ridiculously grateful that she is no shy blushing virgin, or even as inexperienced as he is. Bernard Molyneux may have been a world class asshole, but because of him Wynne is unabashed in her lust and body. She pulls her blouse over her head once it is untied, flinging carelessly to the floor. Her bra follows, and she pauses with her fingers at the buttons of her blue jeans.

 

“Are you just going to watch?” she asks, and there's a smirk pulling at her mouth. “Or are you going to lose the clothes?”

 

Sirius is positive he's never stripped so quickly in his life. The moment he's shed the last item he reaches for Wynne, trailing his fingers over her side, to the dip of her waist and wide flare of her hip. She sucks in a breath between her teeth, eyes heavy-lidded as she shivers. Her touch is sure and steady as she palms his stomach, thumb brush over his belly button before she drops her hand.

 

Wynne curls her fingers around Sirius' cock without every breaking eye contact. She smiles wickedly when he groans, eyelids fluttering. She strokes him, thumb circling his head and spreading pearlescent precum to smooth her way.

 

“Sit on the edge of the bed,” Wynne orders softly, dropping her hand and taking a step back. Sirius has to suck in a breath and steady himself before obeying, clenching his jaw to keep from grabbing Wynne and pulling her into his lap, from burying his face in her breasts and relearning the taste of her skin.

 

Instead he watches as Wynne kneels on a stool meant make it easier for her to get into the bed, pushing his knees apart to make space. She curls one hand around the base his penis, leaning forward to place a kiss on the throbbing, scarlet head. Sirius grinds his teeth together, muscles tensing and jerking at this new, wholly welcomed sensation. Wynne looks up to him, mischief written into the shine of her eyes and the curves of her face.

 

As Wynne strokes up, she wraps her mouth around the head of Sirius' cock, sucking lightly and running her tongue over him. The noise he makes is the bastard of a strangled shout and a moan, his head falling back as he is utterly overwhelmed. He has imagined this thousands of times, came so close to learning on the day he took the last dose of the Draught, before  _bloody_ James chose the worst possible moment to return to the dorm room and check on the things he had claimed as his 'territory'.

 

Despite the fantasies, dreams, and descriptions read in the  _Witch Desires_  books...nothing has actually prepared Sirius for the enveloping wet heat, the tug of her mouth, the brush and slide of her tongue. His hands clutch desperately at the bedding under him when she begins to bob down before pulling back up, her hand keeping time with her mouth. Soon he is slick with saliva and groaning, the muscles in his thighs jumping and tensing as he fights the nearly overwhelming urge to thrust his hips.

 

Wynne hums around him, sucking him deeper than before when Sirius tangles a hand in her hair. He spits her name out, gutturally, fire jumping from nerve-ending to nerve-ending even as white lights begin to flicker and pop under his eyelids.

 

“Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_ ,” he pants, pulling at Wynne's hair. “I'm – Riley, I'm going to –”

 

Instead of coming up, Wynne hollows her cheeks, using her free hand to squeeze his thigh. The orgasm breaks over Sirius like a tsunami hitting land, nearly doubling him over. Dimly he can hear himself crying out – “ _Wynne, Wynne, Wynne; fuck, fuck, my Riley –_ ” as well as the soft, wet sounds of Wynne's ministrations.

 

After a few long moments Wynne sits up, mouth as red and swollen as an overripe fruit. Her tongue flashes out, cleaning the corner of her lips before she pushes upright, clambering over Sirius to lie on the bed at his side. Still gasping for air, reeling and senseless, somehow Sirius' hands find Wynne's arms and tug her close. He presses short, sloppy kisses to her cheek, her mouth, her nose, even one fluttering eyelid before burying his face in her neck, taking in a deep breath of her scent. Soap, perfume, flesh; all of this combines to make up  _Wynne_ , and he thinks she's in the throb of his blood.

 

“Holy shit,” he finally manages to get out. It's all he can manage for the moment though – words have mostly escaped him.

 

Wynne collapses into laughter, curling an arm over his stomach. “I'm going to take that as a compliment,” she finally says, and Sirius feels faintly awed at how she glows in the morning light.

 

“Huge compliment,” he assures her, “the most massive compliment that has ever been given. Monuments should be erected to what you just did. Empires could be crumbled and rebuilt simply with the power of your mouth.”

 

Flushing happily, Wynne breaks into another gale of laughter. She squirms away from him, escaping his grasping, clinging arms to scoot to the head of the bed and comfortable pillows. “Now you're going a little bit overboard.”

 

“Not even a bit,” Sirius defends, rolling onto his hands and knees before crawling towards her. Languid and warmly buzzing, he finds himself wanting to explore every inch of Wynne's bare skin. He trails a hand up the outside of her leg as he moves over her, kisses the valley between her breasts, palms the soft, rounded flesh of her stomach.

 

Sirius stretches out over her, awed at the smooth slide of flesh on flesh, and the way Wynne's softer body seems made to support his weight. Her mouth is a faint, wet glide across his jaw while her arms curl loosely around his ribs, and Sirius discovers that peace is the slow burn under his skin and the morning light in Wynne's hair.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks go to my lovely betas. Special thanks for my darling Noxen, who prodded me into finally finishing editing and posting this beast of a chapter. Finally, we're starting to go places! Please let me know what you think: very few people are reading this bad boy, and while I don't mind that, I do like hearing back from the few of you that are. :D 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own actual piles and mountains of nothing.

With a shriek of metal-on-metal, the Hogwarts Express stops so suddenly that everyone in Sirius' carriage is tossed around. Peter lands half in the seat where Sirius and Remus had sat, face sliding so violently along the upholstery that dots of blood rise to the surface of his skin. James and Sirius end up toppled on the opposite seat, a mesh of limbs and awkwardness. Stunned from an unplanned headbutt that has stars flickering behind Sirius' eyes.

 

One of the few benefits of being of a werewolf are the reflexes. Remus stays upright, though he'd cracked his head against the window hard enough to draw blood.

 

“What the bloody hell?” James demands, struggling for freedom. Once achieved he seems a bit ginger, as Sirius accidentally kneed him in the ribs when they were violently thrown together. “What's going on?”

 

“My _face_!” Sitting back on his bottom and not bothering to get off the floor, Peter cradles his bleeding, hot and aching face with both hands. “How bad is it? Am I bleeding? Merlin's saggy Y-fronts, that bloody _hurt_!”

 

From the other carriages and narrow corridor, Sirius can hear other students groaning, cursing, and demanding to know what's happened. Poking his head out the door, Sirius sees many others doing the same.

 

“People are boarding the train,” Remus makes this announcement while leaning out of the window. His sandy curls move in light wind, and under his scars he's white. When he looks to his three friends, Sirius can read the tension and worry in the werewolf's face. “Something's wrong.”

 

“Get your wands out,” James orders. Sirius' is already in hand, a comfortable extension of his arm.

 

Sirius pulls Peter up, checking to make sure he can stand on his own. (Peter's not as sturdy as the rest of them; for all Sirius teases the other boy, he doesn't want Pete to really hurt himself) Once assured of Peter's relative health, he announces, “I'm fetching Riley.” A cold knot of fear fills his stomach... he doesn't know what's happening, but it doesn't feel right.

 

In the corridor, Sirius finds robed and hooded strangers. Their faces are obscured by magic: Sirius tries to stare through it, but attempting it makes his head throb and his eyes ache at first glance. Looking for more than a few seconds makes him gag and sway.

 

“Please remain calm,” a soothing male voice says. A wizard steps forward, robes rustling softly around his legs. His hands are held up in a placating gesturing. “We are not here to harm _any_ of you. We simply ask that the muggleborn students step forward. We're going to escort you back to London, where you may return to your parents.”

 

Sirius' blood turns to ice. Rage and fear mix together, while bile rises in the back of his throat. Voldemort's followers are _on_ the Hogwarts Express. They may be pretending to be reasonable, but Sirius _knows,_ with a frigid certainty that hurts as badly as a knife wound, if any of the students are taken away they'll **never** be whole again.

 

Students press into the doorways of the carriages. Others spill out, torn between curiosity and fear. Looking behind him, Sirius sees Lily Evans, painfully white and obviously scared. Wynne is trying to tug the other girl back into the carriage, to no avail.

 

Even at a distance, Sirius can see how terrified his Riley is.

 

Intending to go to her, Sirius pushes past a burly seventh year. A glance of his shoulder confirms James is following.

 

“None of the students are getting off this train.” Donovan Slaughter has a deep, booming voice when he projects, and at this moment it bounces off the ceiling and walls. It brings an end to not only the terrified whispers of untried first years, but the nervous rumblings of the older students.

 

A pause. James bumps into his back, and Sirius can almost hear the unasked question – _what are we going to do?_ Finally he turns, waiting to see what will happen now that Slaughter's stepped forward. It doesn't feel right to turn his back on Wynne, but it doesn't feel right to not make a stand, either. There's no right choice,and this understanding only fuels Sirius' anger.

 

“Anaxos Slaughter's youngest boy, aren't you?” Something in his voice implying a smile, the previous speaker takes a step toward Donovan. Though magic distorts the pitch of it, there's something familiar there... Sirius wonders who hides behind the concealing charm and robe. Some of his family, no doubt. “A commendable motion you're making, young man, protecting your fellow classmates. However I assure you, they are in no danger. We are simply going to return to the children to their rightful place, and allow the rest of you to go on to yours. All will be set right.”

 

“Didn't you hear him?” demands James. He pushes through the crowd with Sirius. “He said none of us are getting off the train.”

 

“ _Sirius_!” Wynne's voice is a hiss of anxiety. He twists just enough to slice a hand through air, motioning for her silence. She's clutching her wand, looking very much as though she may faint or vomit at any moment. Merriweather is behind her, taunt and glowering over the smaller girl's head.

 

“As I said, everything will be fine. Muggleborns, please step forward. We can get this over with quickly and painlessly.” The threat here is unspoken yet terribly clear: there is a harder, more violent option. One they are not opposed to using, if the need arises.

 

“Are you standing with them, Sirius?” That voice – Sirius would know anywhere _anywhere_. Even with the distortion, the haughty drawl and manic tone resonates through Sirius' mind. It's Bellatrix; beautiful, mad, _cruel_ Bellatrix. Sirius has no doubt that she would relish the chance to litter the Hogwarts Express with the bodies of mudbloods... in fact, she is most certainly aching to do just that even now.

 

The incredibly dangerous and half-mad witch comes forward. Her movements are of a lioness stalking prey, slow and deliberate. Despite the magic disguising her face, it is easy to see her identity in the way she moves and holds herself. If he ignores the faces and focuses on bodies, Sirius realizes he can pick out many from the way they hold their wands, the build of a body, especially the silvery blonde hair that has spilled over a shoulder to peak out of a deep hood.

 

Lucius Malfoy... Richard Nott... Bella's husband Rodolphus. The last few he cannot place, and assumes they are not of a high enough social class to be a part of his parent's circle.

 

Bellatrix begins to speak, lifting a finger to slice the air between she and her younger cousin. “You were born into the most ancient and noble of families. Your blood is more precious than any amount of gold or jewels –”

 

“It's only blood,” Sirius harshly cuts her off. “No better or worse than a muggleborn's, muggle's, or squib's. It's just the same.”

 

Mimicking the shriek of a tea kettle at boil, Bellatrix lifts her want. She is all wildness, rage, and the most potent threat Sirius has ever faced. He doesn't have the time to panic, as he _knows_ what Bella is capable of. This witch has gone far beyond simple violence; she makes an art out of torture. It's clear to Sirius that she is about to do something nasty, recognizing the mad gleam in her eyes.

 

Immediately Sirius hits the floor, and his cousin's curse flies over his head. A scream; someone else has been hit by it, but there is no time to worry.

 

The first curse that comes to mind is Tarantallegra. Childish, yes, but effective: Bellatrix did _not_ expect such a move.

 

Shrieking, Bella twirls backwards before toppling. There she remains, flailing and flopping like a fish on land. The shame of it may just be enough to do her in. “I'm going to kill the little brat!” she howls while her husband frees her. Sirius knows he ought to be very worried...but honestly, he can't stop laughing.

 

“Nice one!” James chortles, taking the time to pat Sirius on the shoulder. He does not, Sirius notes approvingly, lower his wand.

 

“Ow – _ow_! Let me go!” Wynne's voice breaks Sirius from his amusement far more efficiently than an attack from the enemy before him could have.

 

Automatically turning at look, Sirius sees Regulus frog marching Wynne forward. He has to blink twice, disbelief washing over him in numbing waves. Though she's squirming and trying to kick, Regulus easily keeps her overpowered with his long arms and wiry strength.

 

“Here's one,” says Regulus, present Wynne to Voldemort's followers. His wand remains at her side, a terrible and clear threat. “They won't be hurt? They'll just go back where they came from?”

 

“Of course,” Lucius assures Regulus, all oil and slime. “We would never harm... _children_.”

 

The look Regulus bestows on Wynne is one of pure and absolute loathing. It twists Sirius stomach – when did his little brother learn to hate like this? “Take this mudblood first, then.”

 

“Reg, what are you –” Sirius chokes on his disbelieving rage, unable to get the rest of question out. He can't believe his own _brother_ is turning against him and hurting Wynne. The only reason Regulus is offering her up is because she is Sirius' friend... no, because they're _more_ than friends.

 

Sirius had told his brother about Wynne over the summer: funny stories and her habit of stealing his socks, how she's hopeless at Arithmancy but is brilliant at potions. Even about her passion for music, hoping Regulus would see how much they have in common.

 

He hadn't thought it enough to give his brother an insight into his complicated feelings for the girl. A mistake on his part, and one he already regrets. _Deeply._ All of this and more runs through Sirius' mind, a frantic rush of terror and wrath and shame... though one instinct consumes it all to wholly overtake Sirius.

 

He _must_ protect her.

 

Lucius Malfoy reaches out to take Wynne –

 

She shrinks back, eyes huge and fearful –

 

Sirius is lifting his wand. Merlin save him, but he's got _Crucio_ on the tip of his tongue, just like his father taught him –

 

Barreling through the tightly crowded corridor to do so, Donovan Slaughter grabs Malfoy's arm and _twists_. “You put a fucking finger on her, and I'll reach down your throat and pull you inside out by your prick.” Slaughter picks Lucius up, huge hands knotted in his robes. He hurls Malfoy hard enough that Wynne's would-be attacker soars into Nott. They seem to shatter on impact, crumpling to the floor in groans and shouts of pain.

 

Immediately Slaughter turns his attention to Regulus, murder shining in his blue eyes. “Kid, you let her go. Or I _will_ break you in half.”

 

Regulus stares up at him, lips curled in a stubborn sneer. A part of Sirius urges his brother to get the hell out of the Ravenclaw's way before his neck is snapped. The rest viciously hopes Wynne's friend breaks both Regulus' arms for what he's done. Or that he'll simply step aside and let Sirius go at him with nothing more than a beater's bat and a belly full of hot wrath.

 

The curse breaks the tense stand-off by slamming into Slaughter's back with a spray of blood and the sickening sound of rending flesh. The Ravenclaw grunts and stumbles from the first impact, confusion clearly written across his face. With wide eyes he stares helplessly at Wynne, who is fighting like a rabid wolf to get away from Regulus this point.

 

Both of his huge hands press against his chest, as though he might feel the wound through muscle and bone. With a small groan of unimaginable pain, Slaughter collapses into a growing puddle of his own blood.

 

Wynne's scream is horrifically loud, cutting high over the cries and sobs of other students. Shrill and horrified, the sound drives through Sirius' skull, a drill tearing through bone. He staggers from the sheer horror in that nightmare of a shriek and only moments later a hex slams into his side.

 

Students begin fighting students. Sirius hexes a forth year Slytherin that rushes him in time to catch sight of Wynne breaking free of Regulus' hold by slamming the back of her head against his chin. Blood flies from Reg's mouth as he cries out and takes an involuntary step back. Immediately Wynne turns on him, clawing at his face and neck with her sharp nails.

 

Loud pops and bangs of displaced air announce that while Voldemort's cronies are Dissapparating, professors and Aurors are Apparatingonto the train. Dumbledore appears with a _crack_ , very nearly slamming into Remus in doing so.

 

Wand to his throat, the Headmaster casts Sonorus. “ _ **Enough**_!” his deep voice booms across the train.

 

All students becomes perfectly, terribly still. Sirius discretely wipes his bloody knuckles on his robes, and slides a bit to left. He hopes he won't be connected to having just attempted to knock Arty Carrol's face in.

 

“ _ **Students return their carriages at once.**_ _**Prefects begin circulating and checking all students. Report to the nearest Professor or Auror if you find someone injured.**_ ” Command issued, Dumbledore follows it up with a steely gaze that brooks no argument.

 

The corridor begins to slowly empty. Making his way to Wynne is a fight, swimming upriver against a current of students. By the time he makes it to her side Slaughter has been taken away by Aurors, though Wynne's hands and robes are stained with his blood.

 

Looking to Sirius with a strangely empty expression, Wynne speaks. “They took Van to St. Mungo's.” Gesturing vaguely, she's obviously confused. “He was bleeding a lot. It was... bad.” Her voice, already thin, cracks. Tears well in her eyes, and this is worse than any physical or magical injury Sirius has ever endured.

 

Countering her fear, he says, “Slaughter'll be fine.” Sirius has always cherished the truth over lies, but this time... Wynne would shatter if he acknowledged how badly Slaughter was hurt. Even at a distance he could see it was clearly a major injury, mostly likely life-threatening.

 

“Sirius?” she asks, still in that strange, slow way. “Why are you green?”

 

Pausing a moment, Sirius looks at his hands. His skin _is_ green, thick and warty. Who attempts to turn an opponent into a frog during a fight? He wonders, exasperated. “I was cursed, nothing major. Let's get you cleaned up, though, okay?”

 

An Auror with spots and a few lonely looking chin hairs intercepts them, asking questions too sharp and quick for Wynne to follow. His tone is short and accusatory, as though Wynne was somehow at fault for what happened. When his questions turn to Slaughter, and Wynne starts crying again. Not loudly, just... just _crying,_ a helpless sort of reaction.

 

“Leave her alone,” Sirius snaps, blood boiling. “She's upset enough as it is.”

 

The swot sneers at Sirius, taking a half step forward.“This is a Ministry investigation, boy – and you'd do well to watch your mouth, _Black._ What, think I didn't know who you are? You so worried about your bit of fluff, but I know what you are. Just the same as the rest of your _pureblood_ family.”

 

Thankfully another Auror steps in, perhaps scenting the danger. “Trant, walk away. Now.”

 

The Auror tosses a scowl at Sirius before stalking away, back rigid and fists balled at his sides. Sirius is so enraged he wants to spit fire – does the arse think he _chose_ to be a Black? That he _wanted_ to put his Riley in danger?

 

“I'm Auror Benshire. If you'll return to your carriage, I need to take a statement from you both.” This Auror is an older witch, gray at her temples and iron in her tone. She follows behind as Sirius guides Wynne back to his carriage, too shaken and on edge to let her out of his sight at the moment.

 

Once in the carriage, Benshire takes the time to lift Sirius' curse – as he was starting to feel rather dried out, it couldn't have come at a better time. After photographs are taken, Wynne is cleaned of Slaughter's blood, and she even heals Peter's face. Lastly, she produces both chocolate and a blanket. The chocolate is broken into hunks and passed around, while Benshire tucks the warm flannel blanket around Wynne's shoulders.

 

“Now then, tell me what happened.” There is a gentleness to her tone that Wynne responds to, sucking back tears and wiping her cheeks clean with a trembling hand.

 

As Wynne explains her part in the attack, Sirius tunes her out: he can't stomach hearing it. Staring out of the window at the peaceful country side, he searches for some measure of calm. Numbness is beginning to settle around him, a most welcome shield from the aftermath.

 

With a certain measure of remoteness, Sirius realizes that if the witches and wizards that attacked had been serious – if they hadn't tried to avoid using force – they all would've been killed. And easily. He's seen Bellatrix kill, and it's so... so simple, for her. A flick of her wand, two hissed words, and then there's nothing more than an empty, cooling corpse.

 

Sirius wishes he didn't know the secrets of the Black estates, how muggles are taken and tortured at the pleasure of the _most ancient and honorable_ Black family members. If he didn't know the truth, perhaps he'd be more optimistic about their chance of survival if another attack should occur. Or rather _when._

 

It's always been heading for this, hasn't it? From the first moment that _Voldemort_ was only a whisper and vague idea known by a few, this was always going to be the end result.

 

When it is Sirius' turn to speak, to explain his actions and everything he saw, he does so as concisely as possible... and as emotionless as he can. Now is not the time to dive into the rage and fear and desperation he felt when his brother – his own fucking _brother_ – marched Wynne forward...

 

“You kids were very brave,” Benshire admits. “But if something like this happens again, you need to attempt to stay out of the way. You could've been... hurt.”

 

She doesn't say killed. But Sirius looks at his friends, shares their gazes and knows they heard what was left unsaid.

 

 _You could've been killed_.

 

A small number of Aurors and a few professors stay on the Hogwarts Express when the train begins chugging along once more. They patrol up and down the corridor, which is too silent and still.

 

Merriweather comes to their carriage not long after, seemingly relieved to find her friend. She spends the rest of the ride with them, bracketing Wynne with Sirius, the pair of them matching, brooding, bookshelves. Wynne leans into Sirius while holding one of Merriweather's hand, staring at her knees.

 

No one finds the energy to speak.

 

 

\-----X----

 

 

In addition to Slaughter, the Head Boy and Head Girl, two Prefects, a second year Ravenclaw, and the train conductor are taken to St. Mungo's for their injuries. Twelve students are taken the Hospital Wing upon arriving at the school – Wynne included, as a precaution. She skips the (much subdued) Sorting Ceremony and dinner, and though Sirius looks for her the common room, she's nowhere to be found.

 

“Fucking staircase,” he grumbles at the traitorous stones that guard the sanctity of the girls' tower. He wants to bolt up them and find Wynne, though he doesn't know what to do or say. Regulus' actions actually _scared_ Sirius, left him sick to his stomach and so angry he can still barely function. He can't believe that his own brother – goofy little Reg with permanently ink stained fingers and that dorky laugh – has fallen so far into their family's insanity as to offer Wynne up like a sacrificial lamb.

 

And all because of her ties to Sirius. It's a knife between his ribs.

 

Sirius sulks his way up to his dormitory, snagging a pair of pajamas before heading to the bathroom for a hot shower. He stands under the scalding spray for a long time, actively attempting to simply _not_ think. Unfortunately he fails.

 

Wynne could have been hurt. Wynne could have died. And, in the end, it would have been his fault.

 

Sirius is scared, angry, and guilty: so guilty he thinks he'll implode from the sheer force of it. So he pushes it away, turns his anger on Regulus and Voldemort and the scum-lickers that are low and cruel enough to follow their precious Dark Lord.

 

“Have you drowned?” Remus' words echo in the steamy chamber.

 

Sighing, Sirius slicks his long hair back before poking his head out. “Attempting to grow gills,” he attempts to joke. “I'll be out in a few.”

 

When he returns to the dorm room, it becomesobvious that his friends have been waiting for him. Peter sits on Remus' bed, looking small and sad. He twiddles his thumbs and chews nervously at his lower lip, never quite looking up. James is playing with a snitch, a quick series of catch and releases.

 

“So,” Sirius says, and then nothing else. What the hell is he supposed to say? The awkwardness makes him angrier than ever – he's been _dying_ to come back to Hogwarts, to his friends and real home. Now he's back and his bloody 'family' is still ruining everything.

 

“Are you okay?” James finally asks, without actually looking at Sirius. He focuses on the snitch too intently, as though trying to fool them all into thinking he's more interested in it than Sirius' answer.

 

“Yeah, I'm fine. Of course I'm fine.” His words are too sharp. They've got the edges of a sword blade, and it makes him scowl.

 

“Your brother tried to give your girlfriend to Voldemort's followers,” Peter blurts with all his usual tact. “ _I'm_ upset about it, and it didn't even happen to me. Directly. Mostly because I was hiding, like the bloody coward I am.” There's a lot of bitterness there, more than Sirius has ever heard from chubby little Pete before.

 

“Yes, thanks. Nothing gets past you, does it, Pettigrew?”

 

Peter flinches at Sirius' scathing words.

 

“Don't be an arse to Pete because you're in a foul mood,” Remus chastises in that quietly disapproving way. There is such a tone of disappointment to his words that it leaves a bitter taste in the mouth of all those that hear it.

 

Toppling onto his bed, Sirius tosses an arm over his eyes. “Sorry,” he says after several deep breathes. “I'm... tense.”

 

“That was really fucked up, what happened today.” James lets out a long, angry breath. “We couldn't do anything, you know? We couldn't really fight. It was pathetic. If they'd really been trying, we'd all be dead.”

 

“I don't understand,” Peter says tauntly. “Why _weren't_ they trying? Why didn't they just start killing muggleborns?”

 

“Because it'd look bad,” answers Remus, as exhausted as an old man. He sounds worn and wrung out, ready to lie down and be done. “I heard Dumbledore and McGonagall talking to Alastor Moody, and they think Voldemort sent them to make a show of it. To nicely ask the muggleborns to come away, and so later on they could say they had tried everything: so Voldemort can say he gave them a fair chance.”

 

“That's stupid! A fair chance? Merlin knows where he would have herded them off to!” James seems angry enough to start punching holes in the walls.

 

Grimly Remus states, “If any muggleborns had been taken, they'd have been killed. I'm sure of it.”

 

“If they were lucky, they'd have been killed. The Dark Arts...” Sirius draws in a ragged breath, flooded by memories of his parents teachings and the old, ugly tomes in the library. “There are ways to break the magical core of a witch or wizard. It's terrible... it's... it's inhuman. The cruelest thing I've ever seen. He might have done that. He probably would've and will, if he gets the chance.”

 

Silence. Shocked, ugly, sickened silence. Sirius wishes he didn't know what he does. He wishes he knew more. He wishes, desperately, to be fully grown and fully trained. Out in the real the world there's a _war_ going on, a war so massive and dark it's even touching Hogwarts, a place he once believed to be untouchable.

 

More than any of that (more important than anything else, though he doesn't want to admit it), this war's already hurt his Riley. He can't allow it to happen again – he simply _can't_. A promise is made, even if it's only to himself: Sirius will keep Wynne safe, from any Dark witch or wizard, from any Dark Lord that may rise up.

 

“Alice Dankworth got caught trying to sneak out,” Peter announces suddenly. “She was going to go see Frank at St. Mungo's. Hagrid caught her.”

 

As Head Boy, Frank Longbottom attempted to stop Voldemort's cronies from getting to the students – which would be why he is now in St. Mungo's.

 

“Poor Hagrid,” James moans. “I wouldn't come between Alice and her man. She's _terrifying_.”

 

“Scared of a girl?” teases Sirius, in an attempt to regain normalcy.

 

“Of Alice Dankworth? Of course I am! And if you had a lick of sense, Black, you'd be, too. That girl is scarier than any Dark creature.”

 

Their talk turns to the upcoming classes, even though their hearts and minds aren't in it. They end up in bed after a short time, and it's the most awkward night Sirius can remember. Four boys in four beds pretending not to know that they're all hours from sleeping while staring at the canopies of their fourposters, brooding on the day's events.

 

When the door to their room creaks open, it's like a curse being cast. James bolts up, Peter hurls himself to the floor, and Remus actually _growls_. Sirius is up in less than a heartbeat, gripping his wand tightly.

 

Moonlight glints off blonde hair. When the initial rush of adrenalin wears off, Sirius realizes that he is pointing a wand at his startled girlfriend.

 

“Bloody _hell_ , Wynne!” James groans, slumping bonelessly onto his mattress. “I thought you were one of them.”

 

He doesn't need to explain who he means. They all know.

 

“Sorry,” she whispers, as though a quiet voice will make up for it. “I, um – I'll just go. I'm sorry.”

 

Peter pops up, waving his hands in a rather alarming fashion. “No, it's fine! Really! We're all just jumpy, you know, so it's okay. Don't mind us.”

 

James lights a candle. In this light Sirius can see circles under Wynne's eyes and the pinched line of her usually plump mouth. With curled shoulders and arms wrapped protectively around her stomach, she appears in danger of simply attempting to curl into a tiny ball and disappear.

 

Holding out an arm, Sirius beckons her closer. “You wanted to see me?” Sirius doesn't know why he asks, because it's obvious. He can't imagine her coming to their room for any other reason.

 

“Yes,” she confirms in that same little voice, still standing in the same shaft of moonlight and staring. Her eyes are huge and dark, pools of emotions that Sirius cannot – or is unwilling to – read. Finally she shuts the door, cutting off the light flowing in behind her. Her bare feet make tiny noises across the cold stone as she darts to Sirius, and she's cold enough to make him flinch at first contact.

 

“Sirius, I was... if you wouldn't mind...” Wynne's voice is muffled in pajama shirt, and she doesn't lift her head up. It's all so unusual; honestly, Sirius doesn't think he's _ever_ seen Wynne so... shy. “Could I sleep in here tonight? Please?” she asks this in a rush before curling her shoulders even further, as though expecting a rejection.

 

It certainly wasn't what Sirius was expecting. He's baffled by her actions – it won't be the first time she's slept in their dorm room and his bed, and it's nothing after the things they were doing only yesterday.

 

“Duh,” he answers plainly, tugging her to the bed. “Come on. You don't get all the blanket, though. I mean it.” Sirius does his best to ignore the three extra pairs of eyes and ears that are pretending to not pay attention... and failing miserably in the attempt.

 

He gets a flash of dimples for an answer, and then Wynne is pulling back his rumpled sheet and blanket Sliding onto the mattress, her expression lightens for the first time since Regulus took hold of her.

 

Sirius notes how James is watching them – as though he's torn between leering and gagging – and he's quick to send his friend a foul hand gesture.

 

“Might have asked your roommates,” James snips, without any real heat. “Maybe we don't want to a girl in here, making things smell all... girly.”

 

“Eloquent as ever,” bites Wynne, “but we all know that me being in Sirius' bed is the closest thing you'll ever have to getting a hot chick in your room. Be happy I'm gracing you with my presence.”

 

Remus' laugh is startling in itsloudness and honesty. “That's what we call a burn, James.”

 

Potter sniffs, pushing his nose high into the air in mock indignation. “ _Ouch_ , Wynne. Really. You better be nice to me, or I'll have to insist my best friend stop dating you.”

 

Sirius hurls a slipper at Jamesbefore getting into bed.

 

“Yeah, uh, considering Wynne has breasts and she lets Sirius touch them, I don't think you have any say in the matter.” This sound logic comes from Peter.

 

“Going to have to agree with Pete on this one,” Sirius confirms.

 

“I just can't win against breasts,” James sighs dramatically. “But of course not. No worries, my dear brother of the heart, I understand. They're very nice.”

 

“Well, thank you very much. I'm glad you approve.” Wynne seems positively chuffed.

 

A chorus of goodnights go up, started and ended by Wynne. Before settling down she pulls the curtains on her side of the bed, and Sirius follows suit on his. She casts silencing spells on the fabric, leaving them cocooned in darkness and the freedom to say whatever they'd like.

 

Sirius lights up the tip of his wand, watching as Wynne props her own on the small ledge above his bed. Immediately she begins squirming around and pulling her nightgown up and off, while Sirius gapes. He certainly wasn't expecting _this_.

 

“Shirt,” she commands rather than asks, tossing the gown to the foot of the bed. “Please. I... I'd like contact. It... I just... please.”

 

Sirius strips so quickly he flails an elbow and then a leg out of the curtains. He's quick to yank them back fully closed, though he can hear Remus' badly muffled laughter at the sight it must have made.

 

Sirius tosses his pajamas down by Wynne's, barely managing to lie down on his side before she's pressed against him. She's completely nude – even her knickers are gone – and she lies against Sirius' back and tucks a leg between his own. Tossing an arm over his side to palm his stomach, Wynne's sigh of contentment is stirring and warm. He can feel the tickle of her eyelashes against his shoulder blade as she releases another long exhale.

 

“I was really afraid,” Wynne admits, and something in Sirius' chest clinches painfully. “When... that happened. On the train.”

 

“You're fine, though. Nothing happened to you.” Keeping his voice as light as he can, Sirius takes a tight grip on the hand previously resting on his stomach. He thread their fingers together, sick with the thought of what _could_ have occurred.

 

“I know... I just... ” Wynne shrugs awkwardly, squeezing his fingers. “Your brother hates me, Sirius. Really, truly hates me.”

 

He doesn't deny it, as there isn't any point. Sirius Black is an excellent liar when he needs to be, but lying to Wynne isn't something he's comfortable with. Above anything else, they're friends, and friends are _always_ honest.

 

“ _I_ don't hate you,” he says instead.

 

“I know,” she answers, tucking her forehead between his shoulders. “I'm glad. I don't hate you, either.”

 

With Wynne at his side, it's surprisingly easy to fall asleep.  


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, posting this from the local library. Makes me feel weird. Anyway, any formatting issues I'm sorry for! Betaed by the amazing and perfect Noxen and read over by the lovely and talented and my BFF Syolen. I was pretty scared about posting this, because the 1970s morality is different than our mortality, and I don't want Wynne to seem like a Mary Sue. But she was quite sure about her backstory. Sigh. Damn characters. Please review and let me know what you think, be it good, bad, or middling.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do own all original characters and plot ideas.

“Hey, babe; you busy?” Stretching an arm across the back of her chair, Sirius leans far enough down to brush his mouth across Wynne’s temple. It’s a soft, moist touch that makes butterflies erupt in her stomach and her mouth ache with the need to stretch into a wide grin. Her giddy enthusiasm is only heightened by his use of this new pet name – babe – though where he picked it up or even why he’s began employing it remains a mystery. 

 

 

“Always,” is her answer, given with a gesture towards the mountain of work piled in front of her. The O.W.L.s, that specter looming evilly over the end of school year, has turned most fifth years into stressed out wrecks. Just last week Shireen Hodgener had a nervous breakdown of such proportions that Madam Pomfrey sent her to St. Mungo’s for acute exhaustion, citing that she wouldn’t stay in bed and kept sneaking off to the library or the Ravenclaw common room to study – and it’s only October. How much worse will it be come March? Wynne thinks it’s all a bit much, driving them to fragile mental and physical states that leave them flying between manic mood swings and falling asleep while standing. They can call it whatever they’d like, but the fact remains it’s government sanctioned torture and nothing less.

 

 

Across the large common room table, where the fifth year girls are banded together in supportive studying, Other Mary gives a pained laugh. “Babe?” she questions. Wynne isn’t blind to the wounded, jealous anger in the other girl’s eyes. “I seem to recall being told pet names were ‘disgusting and overly sentimental.’” 

 

 

Sirius’ expression may not change, but being so close to him, Wynne can feel how tense he becomes. “They’re still disgusting and overly sentimental,” he agrees with a self-deprecating smile and shrug. “But then again, so am I.”

 

 

“Overly sentimental, Godrick’s hairy bollocks,” grumbles Merriweather. There are dark circles under her eyes and backwards writing across her forehead, a by-product of using an unfinished essay as a pillow. “And I’m Merlin reborn with perky tits and a vagina.”

 

 

“Wow,” Lily mouths soundlessly, giving Wynne a wide eye look of shock. “Think it’s time for a break, Merri?” 

 

 

“Fuck the fuck off, Evans.”

 

 

“Needlessly hostile, Grayjoy – watch it.” They trade obscene hand gestures and then Charms notes, the tiff already forgotten. 

 

 

In an undertone, Wynne questions Sirius about his impromptu visit. “Did you need something?”

 

 

“Yeah, can you come help Pete with his potions essay? He’s completely lost.” 

 

 

“So you’re all stuck and want to pretend you’re not taking notes and working along with us when I’m helping Peter?”

 

 

His expression is innocently baffled. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” 

 

 

“Mmhmm. Yeah, I’ll go help him. I’m so frustrated with this stupid Transfiguration work that if I don’t take a break I’m going to pull myself bald.” Scrubbing a hand over her face, Wynne realizes that she hasn’t taken a shower today. Or put on make-up. As a matter of fact, it’s one o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and she’s still wearing pajamas. Hell. If Mum knew she was spending time with her boyfriend looking like something that died last week and got drug in by the cat today, she’d be positively horrified. Thankfully, Mummy shall never know. “Let me get my stuff together.”

 

 

“I’ll wait.” By the time everything is gathered up and ran up to her room, where it’s tossed on her bed in a messy pile, Sirius is sitting on the back of a sofa and in an intense conversation with Frank Longbottom about next month’s game against Hufflepuff. Taking a seat opposite Frank, with Sirius’ long legs on the cushion between them, Wynne props her head against the high corner and settles in for a wait. This, of course, leads to falling into a deep dreamless sleep… and coming to with a bit of drool on the sides of her mouth and Sirius shaking her.

 

 

“Wakey, wakey,” he sings. “Ready for potions work?”

 

 

“Arrgh,” she grumbles.

 

 

Frank is laughing, appearing thoroughly amused by the little fifth year and her suffering. No doubt O.W.L.s are sweetly remembered when compared to the N.E.W.T.s. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so… not put together.” 

 

 

“You should see her in the mornings.” 

 

 

“And you have?” With waggling eyebrows and leer, Frank very nearly drapes himself across Sirius’ knees. “You and I need to have a chat, Black.” 

 

 

In the process of rising, Wynne twists Frank’s ear until he yelps and slides halfway off the sofa, feet coming close knocking the grate over and landing in the fire. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” The Keeper cries out, earning himself an early release. She pats his hair, having developed a rather large fondness for him after the attack on the train and learning how he’d stood up and been hurt by the monsters working for Voldemort. Four day in St. Mungo’s did the trick, though according to Alice, who got it from Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom, there had been worries that the curse would have lingering affects since he wasn’t immediately treated. By the grace of God he seems to be fine, and it’s a rare night that Wynne forgets to add his name into her prayers. 

 

 

Sirius is fast on her heels as she ascends the boy’s staircase, still feeling slow and achy from such a short nap. She’s yawning as she opens the door, watering eyes squeezed shut as she sluggishly moves inside. By the time she’s cleared her vision by wiping the yawn-induced tears away, Sirius has followed her inside and shut and bolted the door behind them. The first thing she sets eyes on is Peter, blond hair all a mess and his eyes red rimmed; he’s got books strewn across his bed. The second thing that catches her attention is James, who’s sitting on his trunk and gnawing at the skin around his fingernails.

 

 

“About time you got here!” he complains. 

 

 

“Sorry, Frank was talking Quidditch with Sirius. Uh, James… do you know you’ve got horns?” 

 

 

“Antlers,” Remus mildly corrects. 

 

 

“Oh, sorry – do you know you have antlers?”

 

 

“Oh wow, really? I do? No way! I was totally oblivious to the giant antler rack that’s grown out my bloody head, thanks so much for pointing it out!” Unbalanced by the new weight extending from his skull, James’ angry flailing nearly tips him over. When he springs to his feet, no doubt planning on pacing as he does when upset or deep in thought, he staggers so violently that Remus has to leap up and steady him. It only serves to infuriate James even further, as he turns an ugly shade of maroon with the effort it takes to keep from shouting abuse.

 

 

“What the hell were you guys doing?” Pointing incredulously at James, she turns sideface to give her boyfriend a demanding look. “What the fuck, Sirius?” 

 

 

Flicking his fringe out of his eyes with a careless toss of his head (possibly because he knows it makes her stomach tie up in knots every single time and he wants every advantage possible), he rubs his hands together. “You remember when you brewed the Draught for us and we never said what we were using it for?”

 

 

“You fucking morons really are going through with it, aren’t you? I don’t know, call me crazy, but I thought once you’d taken the Draught and lived through having your – your animal side brought out, or whatever – I thought then you’d realize how bloody stupid it was to continue!” To be perfectly frank, she’d hoped they weren’t stupid enough to carry on with such dangerous and advanced magic. She’s exhausted, stressed, worked to the absolute maximum level, and now James is sprouting antlers and there’s a good chance that her boyfriend could eventually become stuck in some half-animal half-human form for the rest of his life? It’s really all too much for one girl to handle, as far as she’s concerned.

 

 

Ready to explode in a furious rant, to take ever bit of her frustration and exhaustion out of the boys, it’s Remus that brings Wynne’s indulgent blow out to an abrupt halt. Without saying a word, he meets her gaze for only a moment, quickly jerking his eyes down as though he’s ashamed to be seen. Everything about his body language is that of a wounded, shrinking puppy expecting another kick from an abusive master. She hasn’t the first idea as to why he’d react in this guilty fashion, why he’d flush with shame and curl in on his self, why he fairly stinks of self-loathing and hatred… but then again, Wynne doesn’t have to know why to know she doesn’t want to hurt him.

 

 

Remus Lupin is her friend, and hurting him is nothing she’s ever wanted. More the point, they’re all her friends, even Sirius. They may be snogging in dark corners and sleeping in the same bed once or twice a week, but that’s all extra bits when it comes down to the basic bond she feels between them. That’s friendship, a connection she might be wiling to say is soul driven if only in the privacy of her own thoughts, where no one can hear and mock her. Taking her fear out on her boys is in no way going to help the matter, and they’ve turned to her for help. It’s rare they open up to others, always turning their peers away before they come to close, as though they’re members of some secret society that forbids outsiders.

 

 

And yet, by some incredible miracle, they allowed her in. Not just to help, though maybe that was how it began. They share jokes and laughter, silence and boredom, hard work and freedom, secrets and truths: she’s gained three brothers and a lover, Wynne realizes, and if she’s not careful she could lose it all in one fell swoop.

 

 

Fine then: deep, calming breaths. Count backward from ten, then twenty, then give up and start from ninety-nine and see how far she’ll have to go. The answer is sixty-seven, as that’s when the pounding throb in her temples and blood veins flows away and she can look at James without wanting to smack in him agonized fear over how badly he could harm himself, pursuing this course. 

 

 

Believing herself able to speak calmly, Wynne allows her jaw to loosen. It hurts from how tightly she’s been clenching it. “I’m sorry guys, I didn’t mean to shout. Honestly, seeing that scared me, and I reacted poorly. I just – I just love you all more than you know, and I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to any one of you.” Is it weird for her to admit that she loves them? Maybe; it certainly shocks them all, as poor Pete has to sit down (though he’s flushing brilliantly), and James looks as though a feather could topple him. Remus is a bit bright eyed, and Sirius, well… she’ll just avoid looking at him right now, because that’s a big word and if she loves him it’s a different kind than the other boys, and… and she doesn’t want him to get, well, weirded out…

 

 

Exhaling shakily, Wynne wipes her sweaty palms against her dressing gown. “Okay, um, can I get a closer look at you James? I need to see what’s going before I go hit the books.” He nods slowly, seemingly still stunned, and she approaches him with brisk movements.

 

 

The antlers aren’t the only change. His nails have turned black on both his hands and feet. There’s soft fuzz on his jaw, chin, nose, and cheeks, which Wynne can only describe as velvety. His ears seem to be a bit higher than usual, and much to James’ shame, he’s fairly certain he’s started growing some kind of tail.

 

 

Over the summer, Wynne bought – and paid an incredibly handsome sum for – a copy of Tail Feathers, Paws, Fins, and Fur: the Path to an Animagus, and she’s never been so glad for it. “I’ll be right back,” she announces, turning her heel. Getting up to her dorm room is easy, though finding the book takes a moment – it’s not a nightly read, and she keeps books a bit of everywhere. It’s discovered hiding in a wardrobe drawer (it always seems to disappear, only to reappear in dark, quiet locations) under a pile of winter stockings. Giving a crow of triumph, she emerges from the wardrobe.

 

 

“What’s that?” Mary asks, startling Wynne her heart literally skips a beat. 

 

 

“Holy Jesus, Mary, you scared me!” Taking a moment to fan her face – the frantic search has made her warm and sweaty – she catches her breath. The other girl is sitting on her bed, watching Wynne curiously. 

 

 

“Sorry. I thought you heard me come in, but I guess you were too busy.”

 

 

“Aunt Byrony says I go deaf when I’m focusing on something. Sorry about that.” Giving her a bare smile, Wynne makes for the door. 

 

 

Mary doesn’t seem to be in the mood to let it go. “What book is that?”

 

 

“Um… I really don’t…” Wynne’s flushing, and it’s not just because she’s being pushed into a corner. It would look very odd for a fifth year to have this book, there’s doubt about it, and McGonagall could suss out what the boys were doing in no time flat if Mary went and told her that Wynne has the book and has spending a lot of time in the boy’s dorm. To that end, she had charmed it at the beginning of the school year, hoping to avoid prying eyes. The problem is, living with Mary is only going to be worse after she sees what the cover has been charmed to look like.

 

 

Maybe Mary thinks she’s going to catch Wynne with a book she shouldn’t have – which technically she is – or maybe she’s only curious: either way, the young witch leaves her bed to stand in front in her dorm mate. She easily snags the heavy volume from Wynne’s grasp, flipping it over to get a good look at the cover. It takes a moment for recognition to set in, but when it does she turns pasty white, with two red splotches burning high in her cheeks.

 

 

“The Karma Sutra?” she tightly reads off. It rather sounds as though her throat is being constricted.

 

 

In Wynne’s defense, it was the perfect plan: if any of the girls found the book and saw the title on the front, they’d be too embarrassed to look at it. Or so she’d hoped. The problem now is that she appears to have rummaged up this sex manual and will be taking it back up to the boys’ dorm room. Hell. “Uh,” she says, wishing for the floor to swallow her up. Of all people, it had to be Mary… “Yeah, that’s… that’s the… yup.”

 

 

“Are you screwing all of them?” The book is shoved back into Wynne’s hands. Seeing furious tears in Mary’s eyes makes her feel like a monster, but indignation flares up to eclipses the guilt. 

 

 

“You know what? It’s not of your damn business if I am.”

 

 

“He’s only with you because you’re easy. The whole school knows it: you slept with a professor and now you’re shagging all the fifth year boys.” Ignoring Mary’s bitter words takes a supreme act of will power, but Wynne does so. She turns around, going to leave it alone because she’s trying to be an adult, even though she’s furiously angry and incredibly hurt. But then Mary says the one thing Wynne can never ignore, and it’s this: “I should have listened to Mum in the first place – you’re just like your slut of a mother.”

 

 

Here is something an incredibly small amount of people know about Wynne Riley: for all her irritated snapping and annoyed glares, it’s a rare day that she truly loses her temper. She’s been on the brink of doing so twice before, and all in a span of fifteen minutes or so, and the strength of her suppression has become thin and ragged. But in truth, it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d had a gloriously perfect day; the insult made against her mother is all it takes for Wynne to well and truly explode. Years of bickering and being drug into wrestling matches and scuffs as an unwilling participant have built up, and the fifth year Gryffindor boys are excellent teachers.

 

 

Gripping the heavy book in both hands, Wynne whirls around to crack it against the side of Mary’s face. The other girl shrieks and there’s blood on the side of her mouth, but it’s like snapping a red flag at a bull. Tossing Tail Feathers, Paws, Fins, and Fur aside, she pulls her wand. Her mind has gone black with rage, however, and she can’t think of a single spell, not one, so she hurls her wand over her shoulder and bodily charges Mary. They crash to the stone floor and, with Wynne straddling Mary’s torso, she begins to viciously slap and scratch the other girl.

 

 

Mary does not simply lie back and passively accept a beating, of course. She gets two great fistfuls of Wynne’s curls and pulls so hard tears spring into Wynne’s eyes. Somehow they roll, and Wynne’s head is being repeatedly bounced off the side of a trunk while she furiously claws at Mary’s face.

 

 

“Don’t you ever talk about my mother!” Wynne is screaming, saliva flying, and she digs her teeth into flesh when the other girl’s arm comes close enough. “Don’t you ever fucking talk about her!” 

 

 

“You don’t even know who your father is!” Mary is howling in return, slapping Wynne until she’s gagging on a mouthful of blood. They’re twisting and turning, doing everything possible to inflict injury on each other, and Wynne is certain she’s losing when Mary cracks her head so hard against the floor that she’s a blazing white light and then three Other Mary’s over the top of her. 

 

 

It’s Alice Dankworth, the Head Girl that pulls them apart.

 

 

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you two!?” she’s shouting, and they’re both dangling upside down in midair by their ankles. Wynne squirms against the magical hold, still in the grip of a vicious lust for violence. “Stop it, both of you! Just stop! Merlin’s beard! Lily, go get Professor McGonagall. Go right now!” At some point, a crowd of girls gathered. Lily breaks away from them, bolting for open door to fetch their head of house.

 

 

“Are you two going to stop acting like animals? When I set you down, if you so much as twitch at each other I’ll stun you both, you hear me?” 

 

 

Once back on her feet, Wynne sways violently. She’s grateful for Merriweather rushing forward, wrapping strong arms around her and holding her up. “What happened?” Merri’s demanding, checking her injuries out. “Oh my God, your face, Wynnie – I’m gonna stomp Macdonald’s teeth down her bloody throat for this –”

 

 

She has to spit out blood and part of tooth before she’s able to speak. “The book – Merri, there’s a book, says it’s the Karma Sutra – get it, quick, and take it up to the boys.”

 

 

“What?”

 

 

“Just go, before McGonagall gets here!” 

 

 

Yet again proving what a good friend she is, Merriweather hesitates only a second before looking around. She finds the book half-hidden under Ursula’s bed and, quickly snatching it up, she begins to fight her way out of the bunched up crowd of girls to get down the staircase. Undoubtedly she meets Professor McGonagall on the staircase, as only moments later the furious woman is descending on them.

 

 

“What is the meaning of this?” she demands, before gasping in shocked horror at the state Wynne and Mary are in. “What – you – what has come over the two of you? Are you beasts? Animals? Isn’t enough that we have such terrible violence outside our walls, now our students must attack each other as well?” She seems torn on which girl to go to first, unable to tell whose wounds require more immediate attention. “Alice, help me get them to the Hospital Wing. Take Miss Macdonald, yes, thank you. Miss Riley, I trust you can walk?”

 

 

It’s not exactly a straight line, and sometimes there are two or three of one person or object or wall, but she can walk… or stagger, such as it is. She wishes she couldn’t when they get to the common room, however, and Sirius pushes his way to the front of gaping Gryffindors. God, he’s going to be furious with her… 

 

 

“Riley?” he asks, before lunging forward, completely knocking McGonagall’s hands off her shoulders and back. “Mr. Black!” she cries out, but he pays no mind: instead he lifts her up, high against his chest, like they’re in one of Mum’s movies.

 

 

“What did you do to her?” he hotly demands of Mary, his further behind. “Why couldn’t you just let it go?” 

 

 

“Mr. Black, put her down – Mr. Black!” 

 

 

Despite McGonagall’s protests, Sirius carries Wynne all the way to the Hospital Wing and tries to hover nervously when Madame Pomfrey begins to look after her. By the time Professor McGonagall has arrived with Mary, he’s glaring darkly at the other girl. Other Mary’s in tears, curling in on herself as though she’d like to disappear.

 

 

“Sirius, I’m sorry,” Mary cries, face wet with tears and blood, a pitiful sight. However, it seems Sirius has hardened his heart towards her as he’s unmoved by the genuine regret and pain she’s displaying. He doesn’t answer but, honestly, he doesn’t need to: his face, stony and filled with such a hot rage it seems to burn as brightly as a blue flame, is even more expressive than words. The way his mouth curls speaks of a furious sort of disgust, and he turns away as she’s placed on the bed just above Wynne’s. The grip he takes on Wynne’s hand is delicate, as though he’s afraid to hurt her worse.

 

 

“You’re going to have a hell of a black eye,” he quietly teases, though his heart clearly isn’t into it. She tries to smile, which hurts, and somehow manages to cut her tongue on the jagged edge of a seemingly broken tooth. Though it causes a searing lance of pain in her ribs to do so, she lifts a hand up to cover her mouth, afraid of how she looks with part of a tooth missing. It makes her cry, which increasing the terrible pounding of her head, and Sirius becomes visibly panicked. 

 

 

“Something’s wrong!” he calls out, gone sickly white. The look he gives Madam Pomfrey is truly uncomprehending of why she’s checking Mary over instead of tending solely to Wynne. “Help her!” The command is given with all the arrogance and authority of the Black heir, a reminder that he is used to issuing orders and having them immediately followed.

 

 

“Out,” McGonagall orders in return, the word a bullet across enemy lines. Sirius stares blankly at her. Crossing from Mary’s bedside to Wynne’s, she takes a strong grip on Sirius’ arm, marching him to the door. He’s looking back over his shoulder, legs moving heavily, and Wynne can tell he’s seconds away from rebelling and getting thrown in detention for nearly as long as she’ll be in it. 

 

 

“It’s okay.” Her assurance is tearful and awkward – she’s having difficult speaking. There’s something wrong with her jaw. “Go help James with his potions until I can come back.” For a moment he appears so conflicted it seems he’s been run through by a blade, but he nods, finally following McGonagall without attempting to drag behind. 

 

 

Madam Pomfrey is infuriated and doesn’t shy away from telling Wynne about it as her wounds are being treated. “I’ve never seen such from house mates, honestly. Fighting over a boy, of all the ridiculous –”

 

 

“Wasn’t over Sirius,” Wynne answers, but thickly, as there’s a charm on her jaw holding it together in a most awkward and uncomfortable fashion. “She called Mum a…” Tears spring back up, and her eyes roll to the side, unwilling to meet Pomfrey’s searching gaze.

 

 

“What did Miss Macdonald say about your mother?” McGonagall prompts from further back, in a softer (though not forgiving) tone. 

 

 

“Slut.” Hot tears spill from her eyes, rolling hot and fast from the corners of her eyes, down to her ears and over her cheeks on whichever path gravity takes them. “She called Mum a slut.”

 

 

McGonagall is quiet for a short moment, seeming to take this information in. “Is this true, Miss Macdonald?”

 

 

At first, Mary doesn’t answer. Wynne can hear her breathing, how it grows louder and quicker and irregular. Her hand aches for her wand, as now she can think of a dozen hexes and a dozen more curses to throw at the other girl. “It’s true,” she sullenly and tearfully defends. “Everyone in the muggle world knows about it. She doesn’t even know who her real father is!” 

 

 

Sobbing is excruciating in several different ways, but Wynne can’t stop it. The need to find a hole and curl up, to stay there and simply rot into nothing is so strong it’s a physical ache in her gut. It’s not fair for Mary to bring that all up. It’s not right. 

 

 

“Hush,” the Madam says, not unkindly. “You’ll work yourself up. Breathe for me, Wynne; yes, there’s a girl.”

 

 

“I don’t care who does or does not know about Miss Riley’s parentage, Miss Macdonald. Your actions were both unkind and hurtful, and no matter your opinion on the matter you ought to keep it to yourself instead verbally attacking your house mate.” At McGonagall’s stern words, Mary weeps. “But you, Miss Riley, should never have attacked her, no matter the provocation. You’re both going to be punished. The Headmaster is busy at the moment, but he will be speaking to both of you about this. Of that you can be quite sure. I can’t even begin to say how disappointed I am in the both of you.” 

 

 

That hurts worse than physical pain or punishment Wynne could possibly receive. 

 

 

 

 

\----X----

 

 

 

 

Professor Slughorn arrives before the Headmaster. By this time standing curtains have been erected, imbued with silencing spells so Wynne and whomever visits her might have some privacy. The Slytherin head of house has a sad, understanding air about him. He’s brought flowers in pretty vase, as well as a box of expensive chocolates. “My goodness you poor dear; that other girl did quite a number on you, didn’t she?”

 

 

Sentenced to a night in the hospital wing as the not so proud owner of a concussion, bruised ribs that are possibly cracked, a fractured jaw, two broken fingers, and a broken tooth, Wynne can only agree. “There goes my plan for a boxing career,” she tries to joke. Slughorn’s smile is a small, fleeting thing. He transfigures the chair, which is straight backed and uncomfortable looking, into a cushy armchair. After taking a seat he eyes Wynne’s pillows, before flicking his wand at them. They immediately become luxuriously thick and soft, and she sinks into the extravagant comfort gratefully. 

 

 

“I spoke with Professor McGonagall about this incident.” There’s a gap here, as though he’s giving Wynne a chance to speak up. Instead she stares at a shiny silver button on his robes, tracing the finely embossed serpent decorating it over and over again with her gaze. “She didn’t seem to fully comprehend why you reacted so poorly, which leads me to believe you haven’t chosen to share with your head of house the circumstances of your birth or your mother’s work.”

 

 

Avoiding his too kind, too knowing gaze, she begins to pick at a loose thread on the blanket covering her.

 

 

“Of course I understand your desire for privacy, and you do have every right to it, especially considering how our world views such circumstances. It is not, I think, as forgiving as the muggle world of your family.”

 

 

Wynne can’t stop herself from speaking, no matter how difficult it is. “Forgiving?” she repeats, darkly amused. The slow shake of her head sends loose curls tumbling over her shoulder, where it rub silkily against the side of her face and neck. “No, professor, it’s not.” She thinks of her grandfather, and how sometimes there such disgust and disappointment in his gaze when he looks at her. How he doesn’t even really look at Mum anymore, just stares right through her. Wynne understands her mother’s drive to be anywhere but near her parents; Granddad can barely the stomach the sight of either mother or daughter. 

 

 

“I see. Then you are doing your best to avoid something you’ve already experienced, which I fully comprehend. Anyone would feel the same as you do, were they in your situation. Especially considering your ambitions, and how cruel rumors can negatively impact your chances for future accomplishments and career. However – no, Wynne, do listen to me, dear – Minerva McGonagall and Albus Dumbledore would not, for any amount of gold or prestige in the world, treat you cruelly for being somewhat different, or even for the actions of your mother. I would trust either of them with my life, and more than that, with my reputation. It would be in no safer hands. Consider my words, Miss Riley; you are in a great amount of trouble, and with my unwillingness to share what I know, Minerva would not listen to my pleas for leniency. Not that I approve of your actions, but we all have our sticking points, don’t we? There are subjects that would drive me to that kind of violence, as there are all of us; it just so happens that your housemate used yours against you.”

 

 

Swiping away tears, Wynne chances a sidelong glance at her professor. Sirius doesn’t like him at all, and she can understand why; he’s a greedy man that enjoys money and power and being connected to powerful people. But he’s also kind, and that’s a trait she values above nearly anything else. They’re similar, Horace Slughorn and herself: they enjoy the finer things in life, having and spending money, being well connected, and advancing their own ambitions. Sometimes Wynne thinks she should have been in Slytherin, and doesn’t understand why the Sorting Hat chose Gryffindor. She’s not very brave or strong, and she’s less bold than she is defiant. There’s nothing wrong with being any of those things, she thinks, so long as she tempers her indulgences and ambitions with hard work, honesty, kindness, and respect.

 

 

“I’ll think about it,” she promises, which earns herself a warm smile.

 

 

“Good girl. Now then, what’s this I hear about the fight starting over a young man, hmm?” There’s a certain quirk to his eyebrows and lips that makes Wynne blush so violently she worries the sheets may catch flame.

 

 

Her answer is muttered and embarrassed. “It’s dumb. It’s nothing.”

 

 

“Nothing? I saw Mister Black, heir to a most ancient and noble family, carrying you through the corridor with my own eyes. Professor McGonagall had to run him off, as he was lurking outside the hospital door, apparently hoping for a chance to sneak in and see you. That seems to be the opposite of ‘nothing.’” His chuckle is warm and amused. 

 

 

“We’re… friends that happen to be dating.” And shagging, or near enough as to not matter. Somehow she’s sure Slughorn doesn’t need to hear that part.

 

 

“Young love is a beautiful thing, my dear. Enjoy every second of it, as you will sorely miss it when it’s gone… though perhaps you should avoid engaging your romantic competitors in physical fights.” 

 

 

“I wouldn’t have fought with if she hadn’t said anything about my mum,” Wynne defends. Her speech is slow, due to the spell on her jaw which aids the charms Pomfrey set on her as well as the potion she had to drink, in fixing her fractured jaw over night. “I don’t need to fight her for Sirius. He’ll be with who he wants.” 

 

 

“Clever girl,” Slughorn fondly praises her. No doubt hoping to distract her from the pain and lift her spirits for a while, he begins a rambling discourse on a dinner party he attended a few nights ago, regaling her with details of the rich and famous of the wizarding world. She’s painfully giggling as the professor animatedly describes Celestina Warbeck becoming so drunk she fell off stage erected for an impromptu performance, when Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore arrive.

 

 

“Ah, Horace – cheering Miss Riley up, are we?” The headmaster questions with a subdued sort of pleasantry. “Laughter is the best medicine, after all.”

 

 

“So they say, Albus. I’ll leave you to it… remember what I said, Wynne.” He pats her hand paternally, taking a moment to push up out of the deep chair he made for himself and leave the little space. Dumbledore takes the vacated seat, as McGonagall is giving the armchair a rather rude look. She’s more of a straight back kind of person, anyway. 

 

 

As soon as Dumbledore levels that blue gaze over the tops of his half-moon spectacles, Wynne wants to burst into tears. She’s never been close to the Headmaster but he’s friendly and kind when they meet, and she’s never been in serious enough trouble to warrant a trip to the his office. Disappointing him is rather like making Santa angry. 

 

 

“You know why I’m here, Miss Riley.” She nods, thoroughly miserable. “I’m extremely disappointed in both you and Miss Macdonald. You’ve never been one for either trouble making, beyond a mild and few infractions, or malicious attacks on your fellow students. I’m afraid I found myself puzzled when Professor McGonagall told me her understanding is that this fight was caused over a young man you and Mary Macdonald are both interested in. This seemed contrary to my impression of you, and so I asked some of your professors for their view of your character and personality: Professor Slughorn speaks especially well of you, Professor Flitwick is certain you were either bewitched or driven to such violence by some incredibly provocation and even Professor McGonagall was shocked.” He looks to the Gryffindor head of house, a silent signal for her to speak. 

 

 

“I wouldn’t have believed it of you if I hadn’t seen it myself.” Wynne winces. She’s always like Professor McGonagall, who may be strict and stern, but she’s fair and very kind. In her first year Wynne was terribly homesick, and when Professor McGonagall found her crying in the loo she took Wynne to her office, gave her tea and biscuits, and made sure to make a special effort to speak with her whenever she had the free time. Wynne’s always appreciated how kind she was and how she helped her adjust. She really, truly wishes they’d just let Mary pound her some more instead of making her listen to this. “When you told me what Miss Macdonald said about your mother, well, I can understand how that would be upsetting for anyone… but for that kind of reaction? It was more than uncalled for, it was reprehensible. And it’s so outside your usual character that I truly don’t know how to go about understanding this well enough to decide on a just punishment.”

 

 

Now’s the time to open her mouth and speak up, and she tries, she really does. But she can clearly imagine the disgust in their eyes and she can’t bear to see it, so she simply hangs her head and allows her tears to flow unchecked.

 

 

Infinitely wise and benevolent, Professor Dumbledore rests one warm hand over both her own which are curled together in her lap. “You must be honest with us. If you aren’t, we can’t help you and your punishment may be more severe than is actually warranted.”

 

 

“It doesn’t matter why and I shouldn’t have tried to hurt Mary.” Her own hatred and disgust over her actions can not possibly be explained to the professors, and so Wynne doesn’t try. “I just… I just couldn’t think and it happened and…”

 

 

“We all make mistakes, Wynne. Yes, even I have done things I regret.” Dumbledore’s smile is sad and frail. It’s the first time he’s ever appeared truly old to her. “But the reasons for our actions always matter, even when we’re in the wrong.”

 

 

“You won’t tell anyone else?” She loathes how fragile and childish she sounds. What is she, a little girl? She’s almost sixteen, for God’s sake!

 

 

Professor McGonagall, for whatever reason, seems to soften. “Of course not, Wynne; neither of us would ever share personal details or secrets of a student with either the staff or her peers.” Dumbledore nods in agreement, and just for a moment Wynne swears he can read her mind, that he can see how much she hates herself for what she did to Mary.

 

 

In that slow, halting way she has while her jaw is made nearly immobile, she begins to explain. Her eyes drop as she does, unwilling to watch their opinions of her change. “It’s… you have to understand… I’m a bastard. Technically speaking, I really am a bastard. Gran thought Mum was ill. She’d lost weight and couldn’t keep food down and was so tired, and then one day she began swelling up and screaming in pain. Granddad went and got Doc in the middle night, they thought Mum was dying. He examined her and she really was close to it, was incredibly ill… so they rushed her to the hospital, and I was born the next day. Gran says I was dead at first. But the nurse kept rubbing and working on me and I breathed. Mum almost died, she had this sickness in her blood some women get when they’re pregnant. She didn’t even know she was pregnant, no one had explained anything to her well enough for to her to know what was going on with her own body. She’d thought babies came out a woman’s belly button, before me.” 

 

 

Pausing a moment, Wynne rubs her head, which is pounding cruelly. This is one thing she truly doesn’t enjoy discussing. “She never told anyone who got her pregnant or if she’d been… willing, you know? I still don’t know. When I got my letter I wondered if he was a wizard. Could be, I guess, I mean it’s as good a guess as any. Anyway, Mum and I didn’t… she tried. She really did. But she was scared and really traumatized by my birth and it was hard on her, especially because of Granddad ‘cause he’s a vicar, and he’s still furious with her sixteen years later. He says she’s the whore of Babylon, still, to this day. My aunt and uncle took me in. Gran says Granddad loves me, you know, he just can’t forgive what happened…” She pauses to clear her throat, gently rubbing her throbbing jaw with her fingertips. 

 

 

“Before I was a year old Mum left. She’d been staying with Uncle Cary and Aunt Byrony and her stuff and all the money in the emergency jar was just gone one morning. No one heard from her until I was, I dunno, three? Four? She’d started making a lot of money and began sending Uncle Cary and Aunt Byrony money for keeping me, and little gifts: jewelry and clothes and stuff. She um – you know how pictures move, here, and muggle pictures don’t? We’ve got films, movies, and they move too. But they’re long, and actors and actresses act out stories. That’s what Mum was doing. She started getting bigger and bigger roles, and coming to visit me, and taking me on trips with her sometimes. She’s really good at it and really pretty. Beautiful, like… like the sun, or something, it’s incredible how beautiful she is. So she got cast for a biopic of Marie Antoinette’s life being directed by this really famous director, and it made her career explode. But then people started talking about the stuff she’d done before, and… it was like, um… dirty pictures and movies where she… on film, with men, she’d have… sex….” The last word she says in a bare, strained whisper. Speaking it in front of the Headmaster and McGonagall seems like a terrible sin, and she’d very much like to toss the sheet over her head and hide. She’s not usually shy, but then again, she’s not usually telling Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall about her mum’s porn career. It’s a whole new level of embarrassing.

 

 

“So, um, she still acts and is still really famous, but she, um, uses what she used to do… to promote herself, I guess? As her persona, I mean, that she’s gorgeous and sexy and risqué. And everyone knows, everyone, and when I go to church on Sunday’s Granddad makes me sit up front and preaches right at me because he’s sure I’m going to be just like Mum – I’m not, though – and… strangers know. Mary’s mum knows about it, and she told Mary and Mary said I was a slut and I was just like her and accused me of shagging all four of the fifth year boys because she’s got some stupid crush on Sirius and he’s dating me and she’s jealous. I wouldn’t fight over him – he can choose who he wants to see and I can’t make him choose me if he doesn’t want me, so that’s not why it happened… for me, at least. It was what she said about me being like my mum and what she called her. That’s why I hit Mary. I lost my temper. I’m sorry.”

 

 

The professors share an extended look for long time, as though silently communicating. Wynne looks up a few times, trying to gage how much their opinions of her have changed, but her eyes are so blurred with tears it’s difficult to see them and so she gives up. Finally the sound of McGonagall’s chair legs scrapping on the floor breaks the tense, awkward silence. Her hands are cool and dry when they take Wynne’s. “You do know you’re not to blame for your mother’s actions or the circumstances of your birth, don’t you?”

 

 

It’s difficult to keen when ones mouth can’t open. Somehow Wynne manages it, sobbing so hard her ribs feel as though they’re going to shatter. Aunt Bryony has been telling her this since she was old enough to begin picking up on Granddad’s dislike, but its one thing for Aunt Bryony to say it and another for it to come from Professor McGonagall. Other than her aunt, she’s the only one to give Wynne these words, and it’s as painful as it is healing. 

 

 

McGonagall sits on the edge of the bed and hugs Wynne, allows her to cry on her shoulder as she rocks her, gently and slowly, side-to-side. Dumbledore seems drawn and subdued, and very, very sad. 

 

 

“Your position is very difficult,” he admits once her tears have slowed. “And I understand your reaction to Mary’s words. They were very hurtful and unfounded. As much as I’d like to say no one will use your mother or your birth to hurt you ever again, that would be a lie. Especially in the coming years, as a very dark time is coming upon us. You must learn to handle your anger in a better way. This time – this one time – I will be lenient. But if you should ever again attack another student in anything other than self-defense, I will expel you. I cannot tolerate such violence in Hogwarts. Now is the time for us to band together, not turn on each other. Do you understand?” 

 

 

Feeling very small and ashamed, Wynne nods.


End file.
